Zero Protocol
by GrimGravy
Summary: A year has passed since the Freedom Day attacks. A new crisis has emerged, one that Team Rainbow must stop before it pushes the world to the brink. But this time, the rules have changed. The truth is no longer what it seems. As one soldier searches for answers, an old enemy watches and waits. When the darkest hour nears... there is only one option.
1. Prologue

**Preface**: This is the sequel to my Rainbow Six: Siege fic "Freedom Day". Like its predecessor, "Zero Protocol" is an action-thriller told from the perspective of Team Rainbow and the White Masks, but this time I have included the point of view of civilians as well. As before, there will be other references to military-themed games, movies, and whatnot, and any semblance of my original characters to real-life people are completely not intended blah blah blah.

I sincerely hope you'll enjoy reading this as I do making it. Please feel free to leave a review or constructive criticism. Thank you and enjoy! :)

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

_…_

_On his final tour of duty, Delta Force sniper Ethan Mallory took part in one last job with the CIA. His handler, Emily Jacobsen, had captured a rogue chemist working with terrorists in the Middle East. But before they could return to America, the CIA team was ambushed and nearly wiped out. Their prisoner had escaped. Ethan was left for dead. He thought he had seen the worst of it, until a group of white masked-terrorists used a chemical weapon to wreak havoc back at home, several months later. Their target was Bartlett University…_

_Enter Team Rainbow, a top-secret UN-NATO counter-terror force led by Director "Six". Ethan joined their ranks to redeem himself, fighting the White Masks with a vengeance, and hunting down his old quarry. But it soon became clear that this new enemy was ambitious, resourceful, and deceptive. The White Masks had an inscrutable agenda, their attacks designed to force the American government into taking certain steps. Their biggest attack would happen on the Global Security Summit in New York, held on 'Freedom Day', the day America ended slavery._

_And their best weapon was treachery. Emily, whom Ethan considered more than a friend, was revealed a traitor, a White Mask infiltrator - the architect of his botched mission._

_Rainbow rushed to face the brunt of the Freedom Day attacks in New York. Emily's cohorts were successfully subdued, but the damage had been done. At key places across the world, the White Masks simultaneously struck at American assets, rattling the country to its core. Faced with mounting pressure from within, America enacted the "Saint-Claire Law", a law that would force the country to be a slave to self-preservation. It was as if the threat was over..._

_A year later, many questions remained. The White Masks had not been defeated. Their agenda was still a mystery, their whereabouts uncertain. Their failed campaign of terror had inspired other madmen to come to the fore, forcing Rainbow to remain on the defense. While his comrades faced new foes, Ethan remained vigilant. Deep down, he knew the worst was yet to come. The coming storm would not be stopped, unless he could uncover the truth in time._

_Alas, the truth was never simple..._

_…_

* * *

"_For the great enemy of the truth is very often not the lie - deliberate, contrived and dishonest - but the myth - persistent, persuasive and unrealistic."_

_\- John F. Kennedy_

...

Winter 1969  
Worthington, Minnesota

…

A bright, sunny morning. A good enough end to an otherwise uneventful trip from the airport, enough for "Robin" to thank the bus driver with a smile and a thumbs up. He limped off the door in high spirits. As the hulking vehicle drove away to its next stop, the young man looked for a bench to sit on, somewhere in the snow-packed suburbia. He set his brown seabag behind his heels, careful not to touch the wound in his calf that had not yet fully healed. He took out a pack of Camels from his pocket and placed one between his lips. He was tired. There were only a few people up and about this time of the day, so hardly anybody would bother him.

Of course they wouldn't. On the outside, he looked just like another young man, fresh from halfway across the world. Short black hair, hazel eyes, and a freshly-trimmed stubble hiding the war within. A pair of spectacles, blue jeans and a brown jacket completed the casual, hip look. He smoked a cigarette like any other 20-year-old would. The people walking past his bench didn't even bother to greet him. Perhaps it's because they realized he was a 'tourist', a newcomer in town. The lack of gloves and winter boots were dead giveaways too.

It didn't dawn on Robin they actually saw the Screaming Eagle patch on his left shoulder. That told them they didn't want to do anything with him.

But alas, ignorance was bliss. The young man tapped his foot as the minutes crawled, sitting alone on the side of the street and enjoying the smoke. He was tempted to close his eyes and rest his mind, but he didn't want to go back to that… 'place' at the back of his head. Flame-charred bodies, dead-eyed corpses of friends and foes, a slice of paradise turned into a hellish nightmare. Sometimes, he swore he could also see himself, a soul detached from his body, as his leg was perforated with the bullets meant for Private Mickey. They both got out. They were the lucky ones. Robin clenched his hands, trying his damnedest not to recall the terrible memories again. He ignored the well-wishing of an aged man in a checkered shirt who walked past his bench, a rude gesture in these parts.

Robin was _indeed_ a tourist. If he hadn't told Chuck that he'd be coming back to the States this week, he would've just taken the bus to Iowa instead, back to his mother's place. But as thick as blood might be, it tasted far less sweet than water; it only felt right for the young man to spend his first week at home with the very people he went through hell with. A sardonic smile came to mind. 'Hell' would be a soft word to describe what the Orient had in store for him...

As he let out another puff of smoke, he heard a van pull up beside the road. Robin looked up, and saw at least four people ahead of him, sitting behind rolled down windows and doors. Driver, passenger, and a couple of women on the back. They were youngsters, long shaggy hair with beads wrapped around their necks, clothes that looked like hodgepodges of different fabrics. All of them had faces strewn with mockery and jeering smiles. They reeked of familiar scents that Robin never thought he'd smell in such a peaceful town. Cigarettes, sweat, weed… and shit.

"Heeeey buddy! Catch!"

One of the girls tossed him a large paper bag. It landed on Robin's lap, startling him from his seat. Almost immediately, his nose recognized the foul stench. Its contents reeked and oozed from the thin bag, creating a small stain on his jeans.

"Fuck!"

"Hahahaha! See you around, baby killer!"

The van started to speed away, with passengers giggling with mockery while they flipped him the bird. Enraged, Robin picked up the bag of feces and tossed it back, splattering into one of the van's doors. But the kids only laughed all the more, cheering all the way as the tires skid across the icy road. The next thing Robin knew, he was limping towards them with a scowl on his face, his hands were ready to tear them apart. His cold, misty breath was filled with fire. Before he could give chase, however, the van was well on its way down the road.

It was over. Robin looked at his jeans again, disgusted by the foul-smelling stain. He looked for something to wipe it off, but he didn't want to ruin his one good handkerchief for it. He was at a loss, defeated, and went back to his spot. He was ready to let loose a flurry of cusses out of rage. He wanted to hit something, maybe even toss the bench with all his strength. Not a single person bothered to ask him if he was alright.

*Car horn*

Another vehicle pulled up from behind a few minutes later. Robin turned around expecting to see another band of harassers. Instead, there was a slick red Buick, polished and rumbling, with only one man behind the wheel. Ginger tresses, a dark, well-kept scruff, and a pair of piercing eyes, hazel like his. They stared at each other for a bit, then the other guy got off from his ride. That was when the bespectacled young man smiled for the first time today. He could recognize that mullet anywhere.

"L-T!", he called out.

"Rob…"

The driver rushed to his side and locked him into a brotherly embrace. Two comrades-in-arms exchanged pats to the back. The ginger-head pulled away first, who immediately noticed the smell.

"…What the hell? What happened to your pants?"

"*sigh* Hippies."

"Sonnuva… Where the fuck did they go!?"

"They already drove off, Chuck. Didn't know your town had _them_ too."

Chuck sighed and shook his head, muttering an inaudible cuss. He wished he had been there with his friend. This morning was an affront, an embarrassing welcome to Worthington, but it was the thought that mattered to Robin. His rage had finally begun to simmer and subside.

"Hide your patch, brother.", the driver bid him. "I don't wanna make you a target downtown."

"Why? What's going on?"

"Jesus, don't they have a TV in Da Nang? It's almost like you were in a coma or something..."

_You should tell that to the other guy I was with._

"…Come on. Get in.", Chuck continued. "I'll tell you about it along the way."

The words brought up a few questions in Robin's head. Far more than what he had anticipated. But those could be saved for later. For now, he picked up his bag from the bench and limped towards the Buick. From the corner of his eye, he could see a few people glaring at him, then turning away. They had seen everything. They didn't want to be involved. This was not the homecoming that the young man had in mind.

…

A good ten minutes later, the two friends had arrived to their destination.

'Penny's Place'. Leather upholsteries, waxed floor tiles, and laminated walls with typical country music playing in the air. It was quite unremarkable for a snack bar, but nonetheless a safe enough refuge from the cold outside. Robin sat at the furthest table, away from the couple of other customers minding their own business. He had a pack of baby wipes that Chuck bought along the way, a fruitless effort to completely rub off the reeking, brown stain on his pants. Little progress so far. He tried his best not to agitate his wobbly leg, pain still fresh.

As he tended to the mess, his eyes ran across the newspaper splayed on his table. It told more about the story his friend shared during the ride.

There was a picture, unlike the young man had ever seen in any front-page story before. People, face down by the road side, lying down motionless with arms and legs wrapped together. Old men with beards, women with disheveled hair, and children with simple shirts… all motionless on the ground, eyes closed. His stomach churned. This was worse than the charred bodies and lifeless faces in his dreams. The picture's caption was unfamiliar. 'Peachville', the reporter wrote the name of the place where it happened. It had only been a year, but the news was only published last week.

Chuck, meanwhile, was right outside the door, talking to a couple of cops. Their voices were muffled behind the bar's glass windows. An astute-enough mind would gleam that his buddy was telling the officers to find the guys who accosted them earlier. Faces all frowning and serious, like this wasn't the kind of mess that usually happened in Worthington. A few seconds later, the cops got back to their patrol car and drove away, with Chuck scratching the back of his head. He went back inside with a dissatisfied look on his mug, which quickly vanished when he saw Robin had been watching him the whole time.

The kid had already taken off his shoulder patch, just as he advised.

"You okay, Robin? Did they hit you anywhere bad?"

"Nah, I'm good L-T."

"*chuckles* You don't have to call me that anymore, Corporal. We're _civilians_ now."

Ain't that the truth. Take away the scant marks of military-life from their clothes, the two men looked like ordinary kids. Gullible but brave, misguided but determined, just like that gang of hippies from earlier.

Chuck didn't seem to be too bothered by them. Of course he wouldn't be. Always cool under fire. Always tough enough to take the bad things in stride, unless it was one of his own boys being pestered. The young man was four years older than Robin, but he was more like the platoon's big brother than their commanding officer. Even today, without wearing the uniform, he still had a mind to look out for his people, doting over them like a parent would. Could've made the Army his career, but that whole mess with Captain Barnes got him the boot, disbarred from the military for life. While Chuck had missed Hamburger Hill, nobody in the platoon thought less of the lucky bastard. Robin would still lay down his life for him, as would the rest of the guys.

"Hey, Chuck.", he started. "I still can't wrap my head around this… thing."

Two pairs of eyes stared at the newspaper on the table. One scorching with conviction, the other despondent and defeated.

"*sigh* What's left to tell?", Chuck spoke softly. "Men, women, and children murdered by GIs. _Army_ guys too; could you believe that?"

"The 101st wasn't anywhere near that shit!"

"Doesn't matter, man. As far as folks back here are concerned, every grunt _over there_ is guilty. Everyone coming home is a 'baby killer'."

Robin couldn't believe what he just learned. He didn't hear anything about from the nurses in Da Nang. 'Baby killer', the word rang painfully in his head.

"But _we_ didn't do it!", he raised his voice. "Most of us weren't even in 'Nam when it happened!"

"Makes no difference, man. The papers already chewed the story up; people are still furious. Hmph, probably best if you heard nothing in Da Nang after all."

The young man put away his glasses; he could feel some redness in his eyes. He placed fingers to cover them up, while his head struggled with a torrent of emotions. 'Baby killer'. What the hippies said suddenly made more sense. The words had been their real weapon; the bag of shit was just the thing that made their disdain known. He was unwelcome. In their eyes, he and many others like him had been a disgrace to the flag they all fought for.

Robin clenched his fists tighter, picturing his heart being crushed by the death-grip. He couldn't speak the same to the rest of the Screaming Eagles, but he still vouched for the rest of his friends. They weren't goddamn monsters. They were heroes. They were victims too. But the people, it seemed, didn't care. They couldn't tell the difference, as if they didn't even bother to even try. His former CO saw where their talk was headed; he immediately changed the subject by offering a warm cup of chocolate.

"By the way, I heard you got dinged in the leg.", Chuck spoke heartily.

"Huh?"

"Mickey, up on Hamburger Hill. The boys wrote me how you got shot while saving him."

Hearing the name again gave Robin a pang in his chest. But he smiled nonetheless, to keep up with appearances.

"Nah, I only got a few plates and screws in here.", he pointed to where he was shot. "As long as I don't run too much, my leg's gonna be fine…"

He actually had more than a dozen titanium bits. One last "gift from the gooks", courtesy of the North Vietnamese. Robin's platoon was among the ones who charged up Hamburger Hill. Hill 937. Private "Mickey" Jones was hit during the first push, and Robin and another Corporal quickly leaped into action to drag him out, through the mud and blood. Bullets whizzed past Robin's head. Grenades went off in the distance, sprays of shrapnel missing him by inches. Then, a Kalashnikov drilled a hole through his right calf, just as when he got Mickey out of dodge. The next thing he knew, he had collapsed onto the ground, gunfire all over the place. He was bleeding out, everything going black, until he heard the sound of the medevac's rotor blades. It had only been six months after the fact, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

He had gotten off easy. The other Corporal with him took a bullet to the head later that day.

"You oughta get a Bronze Star for that, brother. I'll see if I can still talk with the-"

"Save it. I don't care anymore."

The ginger-head was stunned to hear those words, quickly backpedaling. It was clear that the young kid from Iowa had heard enough. Faced with dishonor from the hippies and the indifference of passersby, he only wanted answers. 'Why'.

"What did we do wrong, huh? They shouldn't be treating us like this!"

Again, Chuck couldn't help but acquiesce. He sighed and turned his eyes away, sharing the burden of shame.

"The war's gone to shit, Robin. Nothing but... bad news and dead boys."

"But why us!? Why are they blaming _us_!?"

"…"

"Kennedy said the war was just! So did LBJ! Now what? We hit a few snags, kill the wrong people, and suddenly _we _are the bad guys!?"

The politics was a lot more complicated than that, but Robin didn't care. Out of reflex, he stood up from his seat and slammed his hands on the desk. It attracted gazes from the few who had remained in the snack bar. He was creating a scene, but he didn't care. He was raising his voice, but it didn't matter. As far as he knew, there was only one pair of ears willing to listen to him.

"At least the goddamn gooks knew the score. The Vietcong even had their kids to help them kick us out of their country! But what about our own, huh?!"

"…"

"You, me, Mickey... we went through the muck and shit for a whole fucking year, and this is what we get!?"

He gestured to the hideous stain on his pants, as tears formed from his eyes. Then he sat down to gather himself, fighting a grueling battle to keep up some semblance of soldierly pride. He heard Chuck mumble something, likely allaying the fears of the other patrons. Luckily for the two paratroopers, everyone else at Penny's Place were more than happy to leave them alone. The remaining customers pulled from their seats and went out of the door, whispering to each other like a bunch of gossiping hens. Even one of the waitresses spoke to her coworkers in hushed tones, flabbergasted by the outburst they just witnessed. Anybody else would've calmed down at this point, but Robin just couldn't help but blabber. Such was one of his greatest weaknesses. Again, he didn't care what his tongue would cost him.

"Maybe we should let the Commies win, huh!", he vented. "Yeah! Let's bring 'em aaaaall here, then everyone would-"

"Hey! Knock off with that shit!", Chuck berated him, who was about to have his fill.

For a second time, he offered the warm cup of chocolate to his comrade. It was Robin's last chance to save his hide, or else the people here would sic the coppers on him and drag him out. Robin, to his credit, knew that he had just said something he shouldn't have. Too late to take back the words, but it wasn't yet too late to restrain himself from doing worse. Good thing, too, since his buddy was already tempted to take him outside to the freezing streets, see if he would still be angry then.

"Look, we can't change what people think right now. Best we can do is look out for each other…", Chuck spoke wisdom. "…Just hold on, okay? Things will get better. One day."

Robin couldn't bear to look at him in the eye. Shame started to gnaw at the poor kid, and an apology was stuck on his throat. It was about time he changed his tune.

"I hope you're right, L-T. This ain't the people I _bled_ for."

"*sigh* Yeah. Yeah, I hear ya…"

He was lucky he could still count his CO as a good friend. This time, the offer of a warm drink was accepted. Robin took a sip, let the sweet liquid warm his throat and gullet. Chuck was content with a cup of coffee, but more so now that his friend had finally come to his senses. The sweet drinks matched well with the bright, snowy morning, good enough to create a better ending compared to what they started with.

Robin closed eyes. His head was once again filled with the same visions of horror, of the stench that he coped with for more than a year. Burns, blood, and bile, in all grotesque forms imaginable. What he had seen in Vietnam would never leave his soul. But what he had felt _here_, today, in Worthington, had been worse. He never expected a hero's welcome when he came back home, but neither did he asked to be shamed in the streets. Yet, it seemed his kind were no longer welcome, anywhere. His kind were monsters in the eyes of this people. They would call them 'scum' or 'traitor', even though the words could also be tossed the other way around. Robin knew his place. He was a soldier, nay, a servant of the people. How dare anyone would decry him for something his country ordered him to do?

Head still filled with angry thoughts, he pulled out the Screaming Eagle patch from his pocket and slapped it onto his shoulder. Why should he be ashamed for something he thought was true?

…

"Here, I got you something.", Chuck slid something across the table.

"What's that?"

It was a white, rectangular card. Printed with letters and numbers that the kid's addled mind took a while to decipher. It was an address to an office floor in Minneapolis. On the upper left corner of card was a strange, circular emblem with a fancy name written in a different style.

'Ithaca'.

"You know about my dad's construction company, right?", Chuck continued. "They're still hiring. Well, _we_ are."

Construction. Back-breaking work. Robin was stunned to hear it come from the horse's mouth – a job offer? He never thought about landing one so soon after his discharge. Come to think of it, he didn't actually have any plans for the weeks to come. He was content on becoming a freeloader at home, back to being a measly farmhand from before he shipped off. But just like that, a proposal was dangled to his face. A chance to keep himself busy and earn a few bucks along the way. As if Lady Luck wanted to make amends for what happened earlier- or maybe prove that he was still her plaything.

"Seriously L-T?"

"You bet your ass. You know how to fill sand bags and pull levers. Those skills are kinda in short supply in Minnesota right now."

Robin frowned. There was probably a joke in that sentence that he missed. He looked at the card again, puzzled.

"I… I don't know…"

"Think about it: six bucks an hour, plus you'll be working with someone you know."

"_You're_ gonna be my boss again?"

"Hell yeah.", Chuck laughed. "You gotta find your own place in Minneapolis though… Somewhere dirty, like the good old days."

The grin in Robin's face brightened even more, until he too couldn't also help but snicker like an idiot. It would be like the old days again. The dashing, handsome officer leading the charge while his trusted gopher with the glasses following behind him. Robin carrying his CO's radio, relaying orders to the front and back to the ears of some guy on the rearguard. Accepting the card meant becoming a go-getter for a second time. But he would not have it any other way. For a change of pace, he took the card with utmost glee in his heart, hidden by another stoic face. And as a gesture of friendship, he brought out his pack of Camels and offered one stick.

The company had an odd name. 'Ithaca'. But it was a second chance, nonetheless. Minneapolis was quite a drive away from Iowa though, but perhaps it was high time Robin left the barn for good. Ithaca. A golden opportunity to make something out of the horror he had just left, halfway across the world. He should seize the opportunity while he had the chance.

Ithaca. Indeed, it was a fresh start.

…

"Lieutenant.", a woman spoke.

Robin and Chuck turned their eyes to the side. They saw a beautiful girl, probably no more than 18 years old, standing near their table with a tray of Irish custard slices. Her eyes were as dark as her raven hair, her skin was slightly less fair than the two young men's. Her waitress outfit was as chirpy as it was practical, quite unlike the dress-code in almost every other reputable establishment. Her smile was beaming, as it was genuine.

"You really should stop calling me that, Trish.", Chuck smiled back to her.

"Yeah, I should.", she smirked. "But I won't…"

She leaned over to hand over the treats to the former soldiers. Her next words brought a tinge of pride to Robin's shattered heart.

"…This one's on the house. Thank you for your service."

She walked away, gracefully but without a strut. She was sincere in her generosity, enough for at least one man to feel slightly more welcome in this town. 'Thank you.' Those words meant a great deal for anyone who sacrificed too much. Sacrificed for a war they thought was just, but not about what it would cost. Certainly her words were better than 'baby killer'. 'Baby killer'. The term didn't anger Robin, for now, but he knew it was still a disservice to the boys. All of them, either stupid or unlucky but brave all the same, should be honored for what they'd done for this country. It was bad enough to send them halfway across the world to die. America was supposed to be better than this. Today had been an epiphany the young man would certainly not soon forget.

'Baby killer'. They all deserved more, and one day they would get it. One day, things would change. They all just needed to hold on, like Chuck said.

One day…

...

* * *

Present Day  
"The Outback", Somewhere in Central Australia

…

As the saying went, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

A grassy field in a dry and orange desert, the sun raised in the middle of a blue sky. It was about forty minutes before noon, but it felt like the day had been going on forever. The humid heat and idle boredom were starting to grate on his nerves. And this was quite telling, since Ethan "Ace" Mallory was no stranger to long stakeouts himself. A deep ditch, a large, dusty camo net above his head, and a sound-suppressed rifle. The Rangers had been like this. So did Delta, and the CIA. Now, Team Rainbow was putting him through the same wringer. Could've been worse, in all respects, as he could be back at the range in England, testing nameless new recruits as usual.

Then again, anything would be preferable compared to the shit he went through last year.

"Triangulation complete. Sat-feed is up.", his radio buzzed with a female voice.

From a prone position, he reached up a hand to press the call button on his MOPP suit's radio, his other hand rested on the pistol grip of a camouflaged H&K 417. The chirpy voice he heard could only belong to a certain blonde from California.

"About time, Valkyrie.", Ethan complained. "I was about to catch some Zs here."

"Well we can't have that.", Meghan Castellano laughed back. "Twitch said you'd snap her pictures of koalas for her Instagram."

"*sigh* I told her I was _kidding_. Koalas don't live in the Outback."

"You know that because...?"

"I went to Yalgoo when I was six. Grandpa introduced me and my dad to an Aussie he served with in Vietnam."

"Don't clog the comms, you two." , said another man, who was lying prone beside Ethan.

Erik "Maverick" Thorn, on loan from Rainbow's Urban Tac Team, was running the show, running it tighter than his ass on a saddle playing _Buzkashi_. The ex-Delta officer with a sunny scruff was also wearing a MOPP suit, so it was probably the heat that was responsible for his sudden, bitter mood. Of course, Ethan didn't mind his finger-wagging, as it was just enough of a distraction to break the levity. Soon it was back to the dull-waiting: two former SOCOM guys lying prone in a grassy desert, with a makeshift canopy to hide them from wandering eyes and the bright sun up above.

Behind them was Hanley's Roadhouse, some 500 meters away. It had already been evacuated, thanks to Erik's insistence and extra manpower from the Australian Federal Police. The evac had been a hasty affair though, as there were still quite a few cars and trucks parked outside, to the dismay of their hesitant owners.

It was the only sign of civilization for hundreds of miles; beyond that, he, Ethan, and the rest of Rainbow were practically in the middle of nowhere. The MOPP suit, designed to help them survive in hazardous environments, was like a portable sauna under these conditions. Ethan had his helmet and gas mask off while he laid flat on his belly, letting his face breathe. As if that could help him, given the ghillie netting above his head. He felt the lethargy starting to claim him. If he closed his eyes long enough and leave his mind blank, he would fall asleep on the spot. As precaution, he held the scoped H&K 417 across his chest. That way, if his body decided to doze off on its own, he would tip over thanks to the rifle's weight, instantly waking him up. An all too familiar scenario for experienced counter-terror operatives.

Again, the more things change the more they stayed the same. Hard to believe that it had only been a year since the whole mess with the White Masks started. Before, Team Rainbow had been on a permanent state of readiness, on-call 24/7 at the slightest sign of trouble, anywhere on the world. Now? They were _still_ on a permanent state of readiness, on-call 24/7, etc. etc... The only change this time was that they no longer had the full might of Uncle Sam on their side. 'Changing of the Guard', that sort of thing. Kicked out of the Pentagon, his boss, Director Six, was 'promoted' from one cushy office to another. In her place was someone from her inner circle, a shrink with an Indian name and the fashion-sense of a nerd.

Whatever. Ethan Mallory didn't care much for the particulars, only for how the missions had to be delegated. He was still doing good work, working with good people, getting paid along the way. In the end, that was all that really mattered to him. And at least today, he wasn't at Hereford running the recruits through another marksmanship test. Only the Aussies would save him from this morning's dull tedium.

_Damn. What's taking 'em so long?_

...

"Hey, Ace. We're still on the clock." Erik lightly smacked his head.

"I'm _meditating_, Maverick."

"My ass. Keep your head on the swivel. Ram Leader's gonna call us any time now."

Ethan sighed, not wanting to be reminded of the obvious. For about a month now, Team Rainbow had been working closely with the Australian Secret Intelligence Service in Canberra. The SIS requested their assistance to crack down on a group of eco-terrorists operating on their soil: "Earth's Hope". Unlike psycho patriots and fanatics back home, Earth's Hope were an idealistic and determined lot, ones who were quite eager to indulge in madness for the sake of their cause. "Save the Earth from Mankind". Their philosophy was the familiar, run-of-the-mill granola rhetoric that even the likes of Green Peace and PETA found extreme.

Not that any of this mattered to a seasoned Operator; a tango was still a tango. Ethan had always found it easier to vilify the bad guys than to see the humanity behind them. Always better to dismiss their principles as hogwash and mad ravings, than to even stop to think about their validity. That way, he wouldn't feel guilty looking into the crosshairs of a scope. He would know. He'd seen, felt, and suffered through the consequences of giving a face to the enemy. All it took was one night, a few glasses of wine, and a sudden lust. He would be lying if he said that the memory no longer sent chills crawl up his spine…

No. Never again.

Before he could check on his 417, Ethan's earpiece rang aloud one more time. There was another female voice calling him, someone with a rough-and-tumble accent, not too out of place in the Outback.

"Rainbow, are ya there? This is Ram Leader, do you read?"

The volume was high enough to slake off the drowsiness in his head. On the other end of the line was one Tori Tallyo-Fairous. Big Army girl, stout gearhead, nicknamed 'Gridlock' by the Special Air Service Regiment.

"Lima Charlie (Loud and clear), Ram Leader.", Erik acknowledged her message. "Send it."

"We're about to cross Phase Line Red from the east! ETA five minutes! Be advised, we're comin' in hot!"

The last sentence raised the stakes - shots had been fired. Ethan wanted to question her message, until he started to hear the distant snaps of automatic arms fire, somewhere over the horizon. Sounded like submachine guns. It wouldn't be long until the noise would be louder. He looked at Erik, whose blue eyes gave away that he was thinking the same thing. The message was their cue. In response, the sniper propped up his silenced rifle and extended its bipod, while the leader reached up a hand to his radio again.

"Valkyrie, Ram Leader will be on our pos in five mikes. All Elements still have a clear LOS on the road. Requesting sit-rep, over."

In response, Meghan gave everyone the latest info from her satellite feeds.

"Affirmative. Target is a hijacked road-train, headed westbound. Two red tractor units, carrying white trailers. SASR have thermal confirmation of at least thirteen, one-three, tangos with weapons. Small arms and one heavy machinegun."

"You'll see it comin'! One B-triple and one B-double!", went Tori, who had been listening the whole time. "They also got a fucking minigun!"

In other words, the enemy had hijacked two heavy-duty haulers, one of which had three trailers strapped to its tail, while another only had two. That, and a six-barreled M134 that the tangos somehow had gotten their hands on. The B-triple, as the Aussies insisted on calling it, presumably had the stolen cargo; the second one was probably an escort. The intel from the SIS had been quite spot on so far, but everything could still change in a heartbeat.

"Copy. How do you want to play this, Ram Leader?"

"Shoot to immobilize! We'll drive 'em straight to your crosshairs! Whatever happens, you need to stop the lead truck!"

"Got it.", Erik replied again. "All Elements, target convoy is entering our sector in five mikes. Safeties off, mission is a go."

At long last, the nod was given. Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow and peered into his rifle's scope, scanning the horizon for anything amiss. It was nothing but the same desert and grass that he had been looking at these past few hours. He aimed his rifle a few degrees to the west, onto the long, narrow dirt road in the distance from where the target would come from. He steadied his breathing to relax himself. All his training was put into motion; he established a clear line of sight, he noted any minute changes in the wind, he steadied his trigger finger, awaiting the signal to fire. One step closer to finishing the mission and being back home to England.

"Ram Leader to Knife Leader.", radioed Tori. "I'm still waitin' on ya to take out that minigun!"

The reply came within seconds, from an exasperated Max "Mozzie" Goose. He was heading up the SASR's secondary pursuit team, who were all on motorbikes. One needed only to hear the roar of their engines and the small explosions in the background.

"What the fuck you think we're doing, Grid?! They're throwin' IEDs at us!"

"Get in close with your three-seven-mil! Give the bastards something else to shoot at, over!"

"Easy for you to say! You're inside a fuckin' armored car!"

_So much for radio discipline..._

While the Operators continued with their preparations, the SASR chatter still went on. From the sounds of it, the chase was not going all according to plan. The distant gunfire was soon melded with distinct 'blooping' from a grenade launcher, presumably owned by a guy from Mozzie's Knife Team. Spliced between the sounds were quick, earth-shaking rumblings that could only come from a pack of C4. IEDs, as the Aussie reported - Ethan could only imagine the sheer chaos that was ensuing. He hoped that none of their allies had been hurt, hounding the hijacked convoy into Rainbow's lines of sight. For all their tenacity, the Special Air Service were ultimately a distraction, tasked with preoccupying the tangos long enough for Rainbow to land the decisive blow and end this chaos. There was very little room for error. Ethan looked into his scope, while his partner gazed into his binoculars. Presumably, the rest of their guys were doing the same from the safety of their canopies, dotting the desert and bristling with other rifles.

"Visual confirmed.", Erik radioed. "Two heavy freight haulers, coming in from the east. Clocking in at 65 miles per hour."

Ethan acknowledged the call-out. He, too, saw the trucks just beyond the crest of a slope where the road ended, driving way above the speed limit. They were being hounded by two Australian Army M-ATVs and a bunch of troopers on motorbikes. The goons from Earth's Hope were mostly out of view, but there were scant glimpses of them all throughout the road train. They were wearing white overalls, mixed with tactical webbing or bulletproof vests. Gunfire flashed all around them, most of which came from the commandos trying their damnedest to keep the tangos distracted. The rattling got louder and louder as the convoy neared Team Rainbow's perimeter. Luckily for the Operators, they were well away from the shooting to worry about an errant bullet landing on top of their canopies.

From the rifle optic, Ethan saw one of the motorbikes suddenly hang back to the SASR vehicles. The rider held out an arm to the driver, who reciprocated by producing a canister of... something. The radio conversation that followed provided much needed context, though the volume could use some tuning down.

"Mozzie! MOZZIE!", Tori yelled. "Take the Trax Stinger and set it up ahead of the trucks!"

"I'm on it!"

_What the hell is a Trax Stinger?_

The rider sped away clutching his mystery package, dodging streams of bullets like an expert off-roader. Whatever it was that Tori gave him, it sounded like extra insurance to put an end to the chase. Soon enough he was out of Ethan's point of view, presumably setting up near the roadhouse as instructed, several hundred meters away. It need not come to that. The convoy could be stopped by a well-executed crossfire. Rainbow's reputation as a decisive force was on the line, but what mattered more was stopping the tangos as expediently as possible.

Springing the trap would be a cakewalk, if only the tangos' minigun was put out of the commission. The weapon in question was mounted at the rear trailer of B-double, spraying wildly at the motorbikes that were hot on their heels. Whoever the gunner was, he clearly had zero training on how to handle that much firepower, judging by how virtually none of his shots were meeting their mark. The SASR had no trouble bobbing and weaving on their bikes, but that didn't mean that they were not in danger. One lucky hit would turn any of the commandos into Swiss cheese. Seeing that they themselves were having trouble returning fire, the SASR's best hope would be their friends from afar, hiding in makeshift holes with sniper rifles at the ready.

Team Rainbow. They could not afford to have any missed shots nor second guesses, if they wanted to wrap up this job on a good note. Erik replaced his binocs with a rangefinder, which he pulled up from within his canopy, while Ethan kept his scope zeroed into the unfolding scene. The other Elements did the same. They would work in tandem with each other, putting holes on the trucks' most sensitive spots to force it to stop. A risky proposition, given the nature of the cargo they were carrying; the yellow markings on the trailers said it all: 'Nuclear hazard'. All the more reason to make sure that Earth's Hope would not run off with it.

"Ace. Target vehicle: three-trailer truck, 350 meters. Wind speed at quarter value, west to east... Lead your shot into the driver's side."

The windshield was tinted, so Ethan had to make an approximation.

"Got tally."

"Hold fire.", Erik ordered him, then turned to his radio again. "All Elements, Alpha has a bead on the lead vehicle. Confirm your targets, over."

"Bravo has the lead truck's mid-section. Ready to take out the tires, over."

"Charlie here. We have crosshairs on the last truck, over."

"Copy all. Prep for synch-shot. On my mark..."

It was time. Ethan took another deep breath and relaxed his fingers a second time. His grey eyes fixated on his prey, his crosshairs rested on the white trailer-truck's tinted windscreen, approximately to where the driver should be. He flicked the 417's safety off with his thumb. With a jerk from his finger, he would apply just enough trigger pressure to make his kill. Calculations ran throughout his head.

Weeks of hard work was about to pay off. This might be a routine op for the rest of the Team, but Ethan knew better. This was another step in a long chain of events, started more than a year ago in that wretched desert on the other side of the world. The deaths of Gabe, Omar, and the others. The whole deal with Mohandes. The emergence of the White Masks. The attacks on Freedom Day. All the chaos and carnage wrought by a group of fanatics. By Emily…

Ethan shook his head, trying his best not to break concentration.

"Oh… shit.", Erik muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"The driver..."

Puzzled by his teammate's response, Ethan viewed his scope again. At first he saw nothing behind the tinted glass, until a quick ray of sunlight gave him a clearer view. The person manning the wheel was quite nondescript. Donning only a maskless hazmat suit and a tactical vest, soon the rest of the features were bare to see.

"…It's a woman."

"So? I got her in my sights."

The blonde man didn't respond, and instead called to the radio again.

"Valkyrie, this is Alpha-One. I have a visual on the lead vehicle's driver. Female Caucasian, athletic build, early to mid-thirties, short black hair…"

"*sigh* Check that. Goddammit, what's _she_ doing in there?"

Something was amiss. Team Rainbow's chance to spring the trip was nearing, but then a new order came.

"All Elements, this is Valkyrie. Our ROE has changed. Driver at the lead vehicle is a VIP; she must not be harmed. All other targets are valid, how copy?"

That raised another question mark in the sniper's head. Something was up with Rainbow's Intel people, something the grunts on the ground were not fully aware of. Ethan glanced at his partner accusingly, then resumed looking into his scope. Presumably, the rest of his comrades felt the same, judging by their trite responses over the radio. All of which became white noise.

"Ace, aim at the engine."

"What?"

"Just do it, man."

Erik's instruction didn't satisfy his curiosity in the slightest. But the reason for the tight lips was clear: operational security. It was the same thing that the Rangers imposed. Then Delta. Then the CIA, then Team Rainbow. Acknowledging the new order, Ethan adjusted his aim, ensuring that the bullet would hit a different target under the conditions previously confirmed. Wind blowing at half strength from west to east. The white truck was about 290 meters away at this point. A few seconds afterwards, it would be 285, then 280…

"…Hold… Hold…", Erik muttered into the radio.

280\. 275. The targets were still well within their weapons' effective range. But distance wasn't the crucial factor. Precision was key to ensure the trap's success. All three targets must be simultaneously hit so as to rattle the tangos' resolve and leave themselves vulnerable to the SASR's takedown. Seconds went by, but the snipers remained still. Excited breaths soon gave way to slow, controlled respiration, calming their muscles in anticipation of the inevitable strike. The targets were 270 meters away. Then, 265. 260…

…

"Three, two, one, mark!"

A switch flicked off in everyone's heads. Muscle memory claimed their next action, as three individual trigger fingers squeezed in unison, releasing three muffled bullets from their weapons. Their aim was true and well-practiced, as each shot had found their target. Bravo tore into the tires of the truck's middle trailer, popping three of them with a loud burst. The trailer instantly shifted its weight to one side, having lost significant traction from its wheels. Charlie had a better result: they shot at the driver's compartment, which was sprayed with blood from within. It continued to drive, presumably from a passenger desperately trying to keep their hands on the wheel. This caused the truck to slow down, allowing for the SASR bikes to close in on the minigun at the rear trailer and take out its gunner with a few, well-placed SMG bursts. The endless shooting that Tori had been complaining earlier had finally grown quiet.

"Good hits, good hits."

However, there was a problem.

The lead truck was still on the move. Ethan was puzzled why his first shot didn't connect. He had just sent a rifle round into the truck's front grills, but it didn't halt. He shot at it again, this time aiming at a different area on the engine block, but the effect was the same. Flabbergasted, he reared to fire off a third round, only this time it would be followed-up by a few more shots to the same spot, all in an effort to make a dent on the damn thing. All throughout, the driver herself remained unfazed, like she didn't even realize that her vehicle was being shot at.

"Negative hit on the lead truck. Target is still rolling."

The vehicle resisted all attempts to put be out of commission. There could only be one explanation.

"The engine block's armored!", Ethan exclaimed.

"Are ya shittin' me?! They _also_ made the truck bulletproof?!", Tori yelled back on the radio.

The tangos must have chopped up the truck somewhere, fitted it with titanium plates just for this chase. What a stretch it would be if proven true - a portent of their enemy's hidden cunning. Everyone watched helplessly as the long, segmented road train stayed the course, speeding across the road with nothing to stop it. In less than a minute, the trucks would be crossing Phase Line Red, beyond Rainbow's line of sight. The tangos would be home free.

"Now what?"

There was still hope.

"Knife Leader to Ram Leader.", Mozzie radioed. "Trax Stinger's set 100 meters ahead of ya, over."

"About fuckin' time!", Tori exclaimed. "Clear the path! They're headed your way now!"

Ethan wanted to know what they were talking about. Realizing there was no use hiding anymore, he removed the camouflaged canopy over his head and sat upright. He had a good view of the trucks they just shot at, which were wobbling rather violently. The road was strewn with bits of torn rubber and dark skid marks. Just as it seemed that all hope was lost, that was when the Trax Stingers made their much-needed debut. The mystery item from Tori was actually a portable spike trap.

*Pop! Pop! Pop!*

Instantly, the truck's front tires disintegrated into a shredded heap, forcing the long vehicle to swerve uncontrollably. This also caused the second vehicle to swerve to the side, almost losing control, until it too fell to the same trap. Both trucks now had lost their most important wheels, and they could do nothing but drive straight into one direction. It should have been a home run.

The plan had a fatal flaw. Rather than slow to a halt, the first truck simply kept driving, knocking aside brushes, signages, and roadside posts. It swerved into a ditch, but it didn't stop dead, and instead caused its precious cargo to bounce into the road. This distracted the other truck behind, forcing it dodge the containers and enter into its own horrible cycle of violent swerves, all in an attempt to maintain. They had both lost their balance, and perhaps their brakes as well. Not a single commando dared to drive near them and force them to stop. And without any interference, the trucks were free to change direction without their drivers' prompting, at the mercy of inertia and Newton's laws. They were now headed straight to the one place they were not supposed to be.

Hanley's Roadhouse. Even though the commandos had set up well ahead of the place, the hijacked trucks still managed to reach all the way to the one place where they could do damage. The radio quickly filled with panicked shouts from the SASR, trying to come up with something to keep their quarry on course. Alas, their efforts had only led their would-be targets directly into harm's way. Two runaway trucks, one of which had a haul of dangerous, radioactive cargo on its back. They careened to the direction of the roadhouse, off the asphalt and into the Outback's orange-crusted desert, honking to no avail. They smashed through barbed-wire fences, one after the other. And all that Ethan could do was to watch the denouement from a distance.

"Holy shit!"

The crash was inevitable.

…


	2. Chapter 1 - Just Another Day

.

* * *

**Chapter One – "Just Another Day"**

* * *

Three minutes later

...

"Rainbow! Mind giving us a hand here?!"

"*huff* *huff* Copy that, Ram Leader!", Erik replied between breaths, his legs darting across the desert. "We're moving on foot from the east! ETA 30 seconds!"

"Affirmative! We've got the roadhouse surrounded; Knife Team is prepping to breach in two minutes. Link up with me at the petrol station, over!"

Ethan noted the new parameters, as he and his partner bolted to where the two trucks had crashed, "Hanley's Roadhouse". It was a small collection of different structures built adjacent to each other, a quiet place now bearing a faint smoke plume from a busted fuel line or a smoking engine. The two Operators ran as fast as they could; they covered quite a lot of ground, more so had they shed their MOPP suits for something less cumbersome.

It was quite eerie. From afar, the gunfire seemed to have stopped, replaced by radio static. The tangos were unaccounted for, but it was safe to assume that some of them were still alive. However, the threat they posed was nothing compared to that of the nuclear cargo they'd stolen. Ethan could see that the three-trailer truck had been banged up, its cargo containers strewn into a messy heap outside of the roadhouse, like a stack of overturned dominos. The chance of rad-leak was significant, hence the need to wear heavy protective gear. If it weren't for Erik's insistence to evacuate civilians from the mission area beforehand, Team Rainbow would have had a lot of casualties to sort through first. Or worse, a hostage crisis.

"All Teams, this is Valkyrie. Sat-feeds report multiple heat signatures, moving internal. SASR has a containment perimeter; link up with them for a sweep-and-clear."

"We already got that Valk! We're double-timing it now!", Erik replied to the radio.

Meanwhile, Ethan berated himself for his shots from earlier. Perhaps he brought the wrong weapon with him today; a 50-cal would've punctured the engine block and immobilized the damn truck completely. But there was also the risk of collateral damage, notwithstanding the presence of the 'VIP'. Too late to juggle what-ifs in his head at this point, so he pressed on and followed his partner's lead. His legs ran briskly as far as his equipment could allow. It was straining, to say the least. On his person was an oxygen tank, helmet and mounted imaging device, plate carriers, ammo pouches, and other miscellanies. The temperature inside the MOPP suit didn't do him any favors.

"Just another day in the office, eh Maverick?"

"Don't fucking jinx this, Ace. That's like saying 'what could possibly go wrong?'..."

"Heh, fair enough."

Running behind the two Operators were the rest of Bravo and Charlie Elements, the same guys who helped take out the trucks earlier. Heavily-armed and sealed in their own MOPP suits, these men and women weren't just any 'ordinary' spec ops, as if the word even applied to them. They represented Rainbow's CBRN Threat Unit and Urban Tactical Response Team, the first time that both outfits were on the same mission. One half was adept at handling and containing rogue nuclear cargo, while the other would deal with critical threats in highly-populated urban areas. Some of the best counter-terror experts in the world, but their presence was little comfort considering that the mission all went to hell anyway.

"Bravo-One. Anything your drone can tell us?", Erik talked to his radio again.

"Ten Earth's Hope members are still active, Alpha.", Olivier "Lion" Flament replied, relaying what his eye-in-the-sky was feeding to his datapad. "They're congregating at the garage and motel, first floor. They also carried bodies to the second floor, probably casualties."

"Ah, shit. Is the VIP among them?"

"Uncertain. EE-ONE-D hasn't seen bloodstains on the driver's seat, over."

"Roger that. Charlie-One, I need your trauma kit on standby. Be ready to set-up triage and an overwatch position near the pumps, how copy?"

"Affirmative Alpha. Just say the word.", Lera "Finka" Melnikova acknowledged the order, speaking in her Slavic accent.

By 'VIP', Oli was referring to the truck driver that Erik had ID'd before the trap was sprung. Caucasian female with a short brunette cut. The B-triple she drove had crashed into the roadhouse head-on. Whoever she was, it was imperative that she be taken alive. Meghan would give them an earful if this mystery lady ended up a corpse after today.

Within seconds, the three Elements had gathered by the fuel pumps, huddling behind a tan M-ATV that Tori was driving earlier. Oli knelt to check on his datapad again, while Lera unloaded a large medical pack from her backpack, as Erik requested. Ethan, meanwhile, took a moment to catch his breath and scan his surroundings. The petrol station was strewn with shattered glass, concrete, metal bits, and other debris. The B-triple to its left was a wreck: the truck had broken into the eastern section of the roadhouse. Lera, ever the science expert, brought up her scanner to see if the radioactive cargo had leaked after impact. Nothing so far; Australian nuclear safety measures have paid off for once.

The B-double, which contained the minigun that harried the commandos to no end, was parked almost perfectly beside the fuel pumps. The machine gun was smoking, but silent, and there was a trail of blood coming from its sandbag position, presumably the shooter's. It was a dang miracle that both trucks were able to dodge the fuel pumps, though that could be attributed to their erstwhile 'VIP'. As for the SASR, they kept a low profile. Ethan could see that the bulk of them were either huddled behind a wall or were navigating the roadhouse's rooftops for another entry point. It was hard to tell who among them belonged to Ram Team or Knife Team, as they all had Hazmat suits in desert camo.

"Ram Leader, this is Alpha-One. We're at the pumps."

"Roger that! I'm coming to you."

Not long after, the big girl herself came to view. Clad in a maskless suit and a hulking backpack, Tori brandished a mag-fed M249 SAW as she scooted to Erik and Ethan's position by an abandoned Jeep Wrangler. Behind her was a nondescript SASR commando, hands wrapped around an F90 assault rifle. A few of her men were also checking on the immobilized B-triple's tractor just several feet away.

"What took ya boys and girls, eh?"

"Had to leg it from our posts, Gridlock.", Erik replied. "What's the skinny?"

"Tangos are still inside; nuclear cargo is secure for now. We've got the restaurant entrance blocked off, but we need ya to flank the rear and keep 'em from running."

Erik exchanged nods with Oli, whose Bravo Element was deemed most suited for the job.

"Our UAV also spotted movement in the motel and the garage.", the blonde man continued. "Could be the tangos are prepping an ambush?"

"Don't worry, we'll be ready for 'em. My boys and I are headed to the resto, Mozzie's team will come from topside. But we will _all_ move on your word, yeah?"

"Got it."

Tori nodded back, then sprinted to the spot she left earlier. She rejoined her team, in anticipation for the assault.

_Here we go._

The Operators made their final preparations. Gas masks were worn, rifles were topped-off, weapon sights and trauma plates were double-checked. Oli also took the time to cock his two handguns, one on his hip holster and another on his chest rig, ensuring that he would not be caught defenseless in a fight. Each of the Operators checked the pressure gauges of their fellows' suits. But as an end to their checklist, Lera pulled out a stainless-steel box from her backpack, which contained a set of neatly-organized syringes that she then handed to her comrades.

"Take one."

"What the hell is this?", Ethan asked.

"Adrenal nanites...", she explained. "...Plus potassium iodide and other compounds to protect us from radiation. Just in case, you know."

"Well. You're the doc, I guess..."

She had brought her brainchild nanobots for today, as a sort of last resort should the nuclear situation ever went further south. One shot into the bloodstream, and they would be doing miracles like strengthening the muscles with a zinc-based compound, or dispensing artificial painkillers into the body in response to damage. The good doctor placed a lot of confidence in her little machines, as she made damn sure that every man and woman around her had a syringe at the ready.

"Inject on my word... go.", she bid them.

They all did so in unison, through a syringe outlet located in their MOPP suit's left forearm. Then, the doctor pressed a button on her left glove. Ethan felt the pinprick instantly replaced with renewed vigor, much to his astonishment. It was almost like a second wind, recovering their stamina after the sprint across the Outback.

"Alright, nanite signals are in the green.", Lera checked her datapad's readings. "We should be good for a total of five minutes."

It was more than the duration her bots had in the VR exercises. This was real life, not a fancy training sim.

"We'll take all the help we can get.", Erik complimented her. "Bravo: go 'round the north campsite and lock it down; make sure nobody's gets out. Charlie: maintain a pos here at the pump station..."

The two team leaders nodded.

"...Ace, you're with me. We're gonna move in with Ram Team."

"Roger."

"Keep an eye out for the VIP, guys. Remember: don't shoot her."

Caucasian female, athletic build, short black hair, grey jumpsuit with tac-vest. She probably wouldn't be too hard to find.

Everyone dispersed to their insertion points, crouched and with swift feet. The Australian commandos moved with guns trained at every window or door where the tangos could be hiding behind. Boots on the ground; Ethan felt his pulse quicken, readying him for what was to come next. Or it could be the nanobots doing it, keeping him alert and awake. Seconds later, he and Erik had met up with Tori's team on the eastern section of the roadhouse. They used hand signals to coordinate with each other, hugging behind the blue walls leading to the closed double-doors of the restaurant area. The "Kangaroo Kitchen", as the signboard said. They encountered no problems so far, but that could easily take a nasty turn.

"All Blue Force callsigns...", Erik whispered into his headset. "...Alpha and Ram Team are at the east-side of the structure, ready for entry. Sound off."

"Bravo is at the north-west, awaiting your order."

"Charlie has established overwatch by the fuel pumps, over."

"Knife Team at the rooftops, ready to drop down on your word.", Mozzie spoke last. "Oi, Grid... Give these Rainbow blokes a 'big' impression, yeah?"

"Very funny, ya cunt...", she muttered.

It was time. Tori signaled with her left hand, ordering her boys to move in closer to the entrance. Ethan covered their rear before it was time for him and his partner to follow suit. Everyone kept eyes on their sectors and their Geiger counters, the latter in the event of a radiation leak inside. Next, the Aussies quickly shifted to the other side of the doors, huddling behind the adjacent wall. The double-doors must be opened simultaneously with both teams covering different lines of sight. According to the floorplans, this part of the roadhouse was connected to two hallways, both leading to the main dining halls. They had sparse cover and firing lanes, applicable for both sides. Not exactly optimum conditions that favored the attackers. The lack of recon drones was also a setback, but nobody expected a sniping mission to turn into a CQC-sweep.

"All teams, this is Valkyrie.", the radio buzzed one more time with Meghan's voice. "Satellites have been re-positioned, maintaining good overhead. You're cleared to proceed."

"Understood.", Erik whispered again. "Blue Force, entry is a go. Say again: entry is a go. Be ready to move on my signal..."

He looked at Tori and exchanged nods with her. The big girl brought her team to the other side of the wall, beside another set of doors that led to the resto. She reached for the doorknob, only to find it locked from the inside. In response, she brought up the sawed-off 12-gauge that was strapped to her hip. No use going in quiet at this point.

"...Ready... Execute!"

"Breaching, breaching."

"Bravo, breaching now."

The radio relayed a succession of messages from the other teams, which were soon mixed with the sounds of kicked down doors and shattered windows. At the same time, Tori aimed her Super Shorty at the doorknob and obliterated it with a pull of the trigger, while Ethan kicked his own door down with tremendous force. A pair of high-caliber weapons then peered into the now-breached sets of double doors. Both Operators swiveled to the side in a single swift movement.

"Clear right."

"Clear left."

"Hallway clear.", Tori spoke again. "Squad, guns up and watch for IEDs. Maverick, cover our six."

"Wilco."

Erik and his partner took a knee while the others crept out of the hall. A hand signal later, and it was their turn to rejoin their SASR allies at the main dining area of Kangaroo Kitchen. What awaited them was nothing but propped up chairs, half-clean tables, an untouched jukebox and an undisturbed stuffed shark hanging from the ceiling. All the markings of a hasty evacuation from an hour earlier. Shuffling feet dominated the air, as a couple of commandos proceeded left in order to inspect the kitchen area.

The blonde man went a different path, into another hallway that led to the motel area. The floorplan was quite fuzzy from memory, but Ethan recalled that the ground level was connected to the reception desk, where Bravo had entered from. Knife Team, on the other hand, was still checking the roof for skylights they can abseil from. So, it was just him, a few SASR guys, and an ex-Delta officer inside the restaurant. No more than ten yards apart from each other. Practically, they were sitting ducks. Erik had the same idea, as he suddenly raised a fist behind him, which everyone saw.

"Hold."

He might have heard something. The approach was halted, prompting the commandos to scurry to cover. Tori looked at Ethan with puzzled eyes, who shrugged his shoulders in response. Erik ignored their stares, and instead activated his radio again.

"Bravo-One, is your drone is still airborne?"

"Affirmative, Maverick.", Oli replied.

"Can you give us a flyby? We're holding position at the restaurant; don't need no surprises."

"Copy. Standby..."

The restaurant was deserted, but the enemy was up and about. The perfect place to lay down a trap. Erik motioned Ethan to lower his helmet-mounted imager, who followed suit and then brought his gun to bear again. Even more stares came from their Australian counterparts. Behind their tinted goggles, there was perhaps a hint of jealousy. They were about to wish they had the same level of tech that Team Rainbow regularly employed.

"...Starting scan in three... two... one."

The next moment, the blank screen of Ethan's monocle came to life with a color picture of his periphery. Mixed with the image were red silhouettes of what looked like people... who were at the wrong place. They were crouched, prone, or slunk behind pieces of cover - one of them was behind the wooden wall directly in front of Erik, and several more were in the floor above. With this information, the Rainbow Operators aimed down their guns, prompting Tori and her men to do the same. The enemy was flushed out, the EE-ONE-D had made a wonderful contribution. Unlike the VR simulations, the drone didn't emit a loud, earth-shaking wobble to warn its intended victims. Instead, that job fell upon the men on the ground.

"You there! On the other side of the wall!", Erik shouted at them. "Drop your weapon and come out with your hands behind your head! This is your only warning!"

Ethan knew he could've just smoked the tangos where they stood. There was no need for a fair fight when _real_ terrorists needed to be put down, but the rules of engagement had to prevail. He watched from his imager as the men froze in place, their silhouettes barely making out the panic and tension shown on their muscles. The wisest course for them would be to follow the Erik's demands.

Unsurprisingly, the man behind the wall chose to remain defiant. His red silhouette was clear as day, as the imagers spotted him standing up from a prone position and bringing his firearm at level. He turned and aimed at Ethan's direction, seemingly intending to let off a few rounds through the wooden walls. It was a big mistake to make, even for cornered rats like them. So it became to be, what the sniper feared this day would come to. A fight to the death. And he was more than happy to respond to their courtesy in kind. He readied his trigger finger and held a firm grip on his H&K 417, but his partner already beat him to the punch. The other Operator yelled behind his gas mask while he opened fire with his silenced M4.

"Contact!"

*Thwoop! Thwoop!*

One round made its way to the head, the other one went to the torso. The bullets, muffled by the sound suppressor, bored through the meager barricade, into the foolish enemy grunt who decided to play with fire. He fell down in swift motion, as indicated by the helmet-mounted imagers, after a pained groan and the sickening sound of pierced flesh. That should've told the tangos what was up, but instead they decided to follow their fallen friend to the grave. Foolishly, they also brought out their weapons.

"Tangos, two o'clock!", Ethan called out.

Tori was fast on the take. She unleashed a barrage of machinegun fire into the indicated direction. Screams of pain came from down the hall, but it didn't stop bullets from coming out of the walls. She dove down for cover, pulling down one of her men out of dodge, while the rest scrambled behind the bar counter and the tables. Ethan and Erik scurried to the staircase on the right, well away from the danger zone. The sniper had the presence of mind to maintain good sights on his rifle, as Oli's drone had identified movement on the second floor as well. Sure enough, an Earth's Hope fanatic in a grey Hazmat suit peaked out of the mezzanine above, brandishing an Uzi. He was quickly sorted out by a double-tap from the sniper.

Mayhem had erupted. Notwithstanding the firefight on the floor below, Ethan began to hear protracted gunshots elsewhere in Hanley's Roadhouse. He didn't need to listen to the radio to know that Bravo was currently dealing with another enemy group, somewhere in the motel. By the fuel pumps, Charlie was providing whatever supporting fire they could. Mozzie's boys were nowhere to be seen; presumably they were moving to reinforce other positions...

"Rainbow, this is Knife Leader!", the Aussie radioed, finally making his presence known. "We're stuck up in a gumtree over 'ere, mind if we use your fancy flying drone?"

"What!? Knife Leader, negative! You don't have authorization!", Erik called to him.

"Ah, keep your fuckin' shirt on mate. My Pest will handle it..."

Max Goose certainly had a way with words, more so than any typical 'bloke' that Ethan had known.

_And what the fuck is this guy talking about!?_

"...Right, I'm scanning your feeds... Bingo! I have a visual on the VIP! She's on the second-floor hallway!"

Yet another unforeseen surprise.

"Roger that!", Erik spoke in glee, disregarding Mozzie's insubordination. "Gridlock, we're moving to the second floor! Watch your fire! Ace, with me!"

Ethan followed his lead as they navigated the staircase to reach the mezzanine, past the corpse of the tango whom they had just taken out. Rubber boots squeaked under the freshly-polished floors, now drenched with a spray of blood. What awaited them was another hall made from bright hickory, which led into a well-lit recreation room, complete with table footballs, posters, and a mechanical bull. Creaked floors telegraphed their movement to anyone on this level.

...

Sure enough, there she was.

"Hold it right there!", Erik raised his assault rifle, his partner following suit.

Two pairs of eyes of met, one with a grey hue and the other vaguely dark. Ahead of Ethan was a female that matched the VIP's description: Caucasian, short black hair, an athletic build, complexion that pegged her in her 30s. Accompanying her was another girl, wearing the same jumpsuit and military gear as she did. The latter had a pistol in her hand, but she was more concerned with fleeing with her comrade. There came a cognitive blink- the split-second moment where neither party made a move. Whoever's brain worked fastest would decide the ending of their sudden encounter.

"I SAID HOLD IT!"

The other girl let loose a volley of pistol-fire into Erik and Ethan's direction, who both just had enough time to dodge out of the way. The narrow corridor and tight confines of the room gave them no space to maneuver, causing them to fall on top of each other, beyond her line of sight. She yearned for the killing shot, until the older woman bid her to stand down and focus on escaping instead.

This was such a chore. Ethan spouted various curses in his head as he struggled to stand. A push from his overturned partner was enough to get him back on his feet. Tension and adrenaline filled his veins, urging him to go after the terrorists like a predator on the heels of its prey. Before Erik could talk to him, the sniper was already on his feet, darting out of the recreation room and into another corridor. He clutched his 417 across his chest, running like as fast as he could to catch up on the escapees. He immediately saw the female driver, the supposed "VIP", who then motioned to her comrade to bolt it.

Ethan was tempted to let off a warning shot. But to his surprise, the black-haired woman acted first. She pulled out something underneath her suit.

A dagger.

She lunged at Ethan, covering the short distance between them with blistering speed, the bladed weapon firmly in her grips. It happened so fast that Ethan barely had time to pull up his gun, only to find himself tackled and on the ground again. With the pursuer pre-occupied, the other terrorist took the chance to run away. Her steps receded down the corridor, into another door, and what sounded like a windowsill leading to a staircase outside of the roadhouse. She was home free. The sniper, meanwhile, struggled to release himself from the grey-clad woman's clutches, who was just about to plant her knife into his sternum. 'VIP' rang hollow in his head. The mission demanded she be kept alive, but logic had already gone out of the window by now. The best course of action was to fight back, but he let his weapon dangle on his back.

Drawing from his old CQC training, Ethan grabbed the woman's hands and wrung the knife from her fingers, right before using her own weight to shove her away from him. He made sure that the bladed weapon had slid well beyond his opponent's reach. To her credit, she continued to fight by using her limbs instead, and she kicked him in the right calf to force his guard down. It didn't work. Ethan used the momentum of the blow to propel himself at her, a fist soon connecting into the woman's cheek with a painful thud. It was her turn to be on her knees. Dazed, the woman tried to stand up while she motioned for the handgun she had on her hip holster. That was the opportunity that Ethan had been looking for.

*Smack!*

He punched her square in the cheek a second time, drawing blood and creating a purple stain on her otherwise pristine flesh. The blow didn't knock her out, but it was just enough to force her on her belly, bells ringing in her head. Just as he was about to land another blow, his partner had caught up with him, almost in the nick of time.

"Ace!", Erik called out.

A helping hand, at last. But the chase was not yet over.

"Maverick, keep an eye on her. I'm going after the other one!"

"Wait! I have to call this in!"

His partner's words fell on deaf ears, as Ethan made his way down the hall where the other tango had escaped into. Again, he had his rifle wrapped around his arms, not wishing to be caught defenseless one more time. As he darted from one door and corridor to another, he hoped that his quarry was not too far behind. The gunfire erupting all over the place made it hard to think. The MOPP suit made it a bit more difficult to run like his life depended on it. Good thing there was someone else on their side who had their head on the level.

"Valkyrie! We got a runaway from the second floor; do you have eyes on?"

"Roger.", she radioed back. "She's on foot, headed to the storage yard outside. Knife Team is right behind her, over."

"Copy! I'm gonna cut her off in the yard!"

Before long, Ethan was out of the claustrophobic indoors and back to the Outback. The arid desert and bright sun were still the same as he had left them earlier, but there was no time for a breather. He had exited the roadhouse's north side, just near the place that the runaway tango had gone off to. Footprints on the dry dirt and the shuffling of combat boots from other SASR commandos told him where to shift his eyes. The military-style biker helmet told that Mozzie was leading this pack. He and his boys had got the woman cornered.

"Don't move! Don't ya fucking move!", he shouted with his SMG aimed down.

More backup, at last. Ethan followed to where they were congregating, and came across the three soldiers with their guns aimed at a rusty shack. Dimly-lit, small, and all points of ingress covered, the storage shed ensured that the female terrorist had nowhere to run. She was scared and in a panic. Knowing that the end of the road was nigh, the sniper joined his allies with his marksman rifle at the ready.

"Knife Leader. Is she alone?"

"Right-o. She lost her sidearm over there."

"Got it. I'm going in."

Mozzie suddenly grabbed Ethan's shoulder.

"Careful, mate! She's holdin' a canister!"

"What?!"

Squinted eyes brought a better look, which then widened in shock. The panic-stricken girl was holding a black cylinder, marked with a yellow label and a nuclear hazard sign. She must have wrested it from the overturned white trailer, which contained stacks of the stuff. Radioactive. Very lethal. It was as ominous as a vest packed with C4 in Afghanistan. Ethan's Geiger counter flickered more frantically, only added to the tension. As if things couldn't get any worse.

"Get back! GET BACK!", she yelled. She sounded Australian, like the rest of the people hunting her comrades. "One more bloody step and I'll take the lid off this!"

Her words made it clear that she was desperate- normally a good sign for any negotiation, but not when one party had a dangerous bargaining chip. Ethan cursed in his head. A cornered rat like this poor girl was likely to take the stupid option. She was young, certainly a few years junior to the more experienced woman he had fought a few minutes ago. This one, however, seemed more than ready to throw her life away. Pity, compassion, frustration... so many emotions vied for space in his head. The best he could do was to act. Fast. Sentiment was replaced by objective thinking.

For good reason too. She reminded him of a type of person he had grown to despise. The fanatical, doe-eyed people who would misspend whatever gifts they might have had, just to pursue something "greater than themselves." The ones who strongly believe to be in the right, only to end up hurting and killing innocent people along the way. Much as Ethan wanted to feel sorry for this girl, he defied her warning and instead resumed his cautious approach to the shack. He prayed that his Aussie buddies wouldn't mind him going off-the-book.

"No! I-I said get back!"

"Drop the canister and we won't hurt you.", he tried to calm her down. "Nobody's gonna shoot, yeah? You have my word on that."

"Fuck off! Do you see this? SEE THIS!?"

She brought up the canister for the commandos to see, with one hand wrapped tightly on the top-most screw. One twist of her hand, and the contents would spill into the open air, poisoning everything for God-knows how far.

"This is what the bloody corporations have done to our Mother Earth! Poison and death..."

Tears started to form in her eyes.

"...And you bastards still protect them!?"

And she was also spouting her little troupe's rhetoric. Her brain was set on autopilot, she knew nothing else to do. She didn't have a weapon with her, so that made things a lot less dangerous to Ethan's immediate vicinity. It was safe to approach, even though another part of his brain told him to stand down. Before long, he was already a dozen feet away from her.

"Lady, calm down. Just... Just calm down, alright? Let's talk..."

Ethan knelt and unfurled the sling on his rifle.

"...See? I'm putting my gun down..."

He was now unarmed, and the girl took a second to glance at the weapon that could've claimed her life. That caused her to calm for a bit. Her muscles started to relax, even if she still posed a danger.

It was her mistake.

Seizing the opportunity, Ethan lunged at her like a vicious animal, causing her frightened eyes to widen even more. He went after her hands, intending to lock them in a tight grip. He only succeeded halfway, as the female terrorist managed to deflect one his fists. They wrestled into the ground, the heap of bodies ensured that Mozzie and his men wouldn't have a clear shot on the right person to eliminate. Grunting and gritting his teeth, Ethan overpowered his smaller adversary, until he could wring the radioactive canister free from her grasp. All throughout, his Geiger counter continued to sing like crazy.

*ting*

Suddenly, the screw on the canister was loosened. Ethan saw the canister's lid pop open, leaving a small gaping hole from which pressurized gas could spew forth. A faint, gray mist escaped, and started to fill the utility shack. Mozzie radioed something, but his voice of panic was drowned in Ethan's head. Much of the mist had touched the fabric of his MOPP suit, resembling drops of morning dew. He quickly went after the canister and closed its lid with a tight grip.

His adversary wasn't so lucky.

"No! NO! NOOOO!"

With nothing but a jumpsuit to shield her from the hazardous material, the poor girl watched in horror as the mist sprayed into her unguarded skin, if only for a few moments. Her face became crimson. Blisters and red splotches started to form. Her eyes started to redden. She could do nothing but scream.

...

* * *

...

Sirens rang throughout Hanley's Roadhouse, as it was turned into a damn convention of Aussie military and police-types. At least a couple dozen vehicles with blinkers have arrived in the half hour since the chase began. Such a sight was rare in the Outback, as one stout woman mumbled before she went to talk with her mates for a quick debrief.

"Your fancy nanomachines better work, Finka.", Ethan griped. "I'm no genius, but I know our suits don't make us _completely_ immune to radiation."

The de-con tent was quite cramped. He was still in his bulky Hazmat suit, arms outstretched in a standing position, as the former Spetsnaz medic sprayed him with chemicals. Hydrogen peroxide, or something close to it, judging by its smell and consistency. The foamy liquid also felt incredibly cold even through the thick fabric and the airtight-seal of his uniform.

"Well... You're not yet turning green, _da_?", Lera joked. "I'm sure you can just walk this off."

"*sigh* Gee, thanks doc. If my next kid grows up with superpowers, I'll be sure to name it after you."

She laughed at his look of worry while she continued to hose him down and observed readings on her scanner. She had a point not to be so scared. If her nanites didn't work, then Ethan would be feeling like crap in the thirty minutes since he was sprayed with nuclear material. Very much like that poor girl, who was rushed to a special medical unit and airlifted off-site. Insane or homicidal she might be, she didn't deserve to be exposed to that much level of radiation. _Nobody_ did, in fact.

*beep!*

"Alright, you're clean."

"Thank God."

A thumbs-up from the doctor allayed his fears. Ethan nodded and proceeded out of the tent, as another Operator took his place in the stall. Finally, outdoors, with the humid air and the unforgiving heat, it was safe for him to take off all the crap that covered his head. Helmet, imager, hood, and gas mask. He fastened them to his utility rig as he started walking to his comrades. He avoided getting the attention of Tori and Mozzie, seeing that they were engrossed in a chat of their own, with two beer bottles, 'stubbies', they rummaged from Kangaroo Kitchen. Olivier Flament came up to the self-styled biker, seemingly to have a word with him about his reckless use of Rainbow's tech.

Everywhere around Ethan was a busy scene. Australian Federal Police officers in their own chem-suits scanned the roadhouse's premises for errant traces of radiation. Detectives spoke to government reps, presumably to assure them that the operation was conducted by the manual. Masked soldiers maintained a perimeter while a news helicopter flew above, taking photos on the scoop of the decade. Paramedics lined up about seven body bags; the death count for today was quite small, defying Team Rainbow's expectations. The rest of Earth's Hope had either surrendered or were too wounded to put up a fight. All in all, today had been eventful considering that so many factors pointing towards a bloodbath that thankfully didn't happen in the end. Not great, but not terrible either.

"Over here, Ace.", Erik called to him.

The man was cradling his M4, and also had his headgear removed. He was standing beside an M-ATV, which had its rear doors swung open.

Ethan frowned. He wanted to blurt out something witty, but he was too tired to neither try nor care. The extraction helicopter was still a couple minutes away, so the blonde man might have had a good reason for the distraction. He did as the former Delta told him to, exchanging fist-pumps. A small celebration, seeing that they were able to finish an op without casualties on their side.

…

"Ah crap."

There was somebody else inside the vehicle. A woman with black hair, a dirty and bloody jumpsuit, a bruised cheek, hands bound by handcuffs... and she was staring at the man responsible for it all.

"Isn't this a bit... awkward?", he turned to Erik.

"Just get inside, brother. _Ajaleh kon_ (Hurry up).", the other man bid him with a dose of Farsi.

Ethan shook his head and found a seat, one that was farthest and opposite to where the supposed 'VIP' was sitting. In other words, just an arm's reach from her. If she was particularly vicious, she could've lunged at Ethan and strangled him with the cuffs. His eyes remained cautious, in contrast to his teammate, who only exhaled in relief. He closed the door of the M-ATV, and double-checked if there was nobody else was inside. Typical spook stuff. Then, he reached into a pouch near his plate carrier, and retrieved something small and shiny…

…

It was a key.

*click*

"Agent Nøkk.", he spoke to the woman. "_Er du såret_ (Are you alright)?"

"_Jeg har det fint _(I'm fine)…"

Ethan was taken aback. She was a foreigner. Danish, if his translation was correct.

The supposed VIP sighed now that her hands had been freed. She caressed her wrists and stretched, perhaps to do away with the leftover strain from her bout at the corridor. Dark eyes gazed at the one who left a lasting impression on her face, while she rubbed the wound to see the blood. Unnervingly, she smiled at him like a good sport, even though her erstwhile foe didn't share the sentiment.

"…You have a good right hook, soldier."

"What, that's all you have to say!? Erik, what the hell is this?"

"Nøkk has been embedded with Earth's Hope for a couple of months now.", he finally spilled the beans. "She's on loan to the Aussies' Secret Service through NATO. She's the one who tipped us and the SASR about the hijacking."

An undercover spook, smoke and mirrors. No wonder Meghan was shocked to know of her presence today. And this chick was quite pleasant, all things considering. Her jest was hardly a typical response from someone who almost had their teeth punched in. She didn't demand an apology either. To think, the two of them had been a hair's breadth from seriously hurting each other. Or worse.

"You don't have to divulge everything_,_ sweet face.", she giggled. "Set your priorities straight, hmm?"

"Look who's talkin'. You should've phoned us first, _princess_. If we didn't know you were driving that truck, your brain would be decorating the dashboard right now."

"Oh?", she smiled again, as if the grim prospect amused her.

"Ace over here had you all lined up when the Aussies were chasing your convoy."

"A headshot, too.", Ethan griped. "Would've been a fine kill, no offence."

"Sorry if I had been too rough with you. Had to keep up appearances, you know?"

"Whatever..."

As his partner scoffed, Erik pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering the woman one stick. She had a lighter conveniently tucked into one of her suit's pockets, and she began to puff. This was a gesture of goodwill, worth breaking the Aussies' strict no smoking policy it would seem. Admittedly, Ethan was tempted to have one himself, but he was more anxious to hear this woman's side of the story.

"...Why were you guys armed to the teeth, huh? Did Earth's Hope anticipate a response?"

"_Ja_. We feared we'll attract attention en route, so we brought in more escorts, bought more guns... We even bolted armor plates in the interior when we made a pit stop along the way."

"Yeah, we noticed.", Erik chimed in.

"Earth's Hope now has the means to fight against the Federal Police or the military... These maniacs are becoming bolder, Maverick. You need to tell Six we _really_ need the Pentagon on our side."

"What do you mean?"

"This convoy was not the first one we hijacked. Another cell got their hands on a shipment from Kazakhstan _last month._ Spetsnaz stopped them in the Caspian Sea."

"Jesus Christ! Do you have proof of this?"

"No. Just a few loose tongues... But here's the thing: these people _hate_ each other. Earth's Hope usually do not coordinate among themselves, let alone pool their resources for a job this far away from their home turf."

Such a startling revelation. Neither of the two Operators had known that this mission was actually a lot more complicated when it landed on their feet. Meghan and Six should be brought up to speed right away, lest they wouldn't act on this important piece of intel in time. Ethan, no longer concerned about the events of half an hour ago, tuned in closer to hear the rest of what this 'Nøkk' had to say.

"So what changed?"

"One of their leaders boasted about it in a private chatboard.", the woman continued. "They found a guy who will help them 'give the polluters of the world a taste of their own medicine'."

Erik was unconvinced.

"But nuclear material? The uranium in that truck is not weapons-grade, not even enough for a Chernobyl Part Two."

"That doesn't mean they'll stop trying. Not sure why they wanted this convoy _specifically_. But I do have this..."

Nøkk pulled out something from her breast pocket. A piece of paper, crumpled and smudged in dirt. Written within were lines upon lines of poorly-legible figures. Upon closer inspection, they were actually a collection of numbers. Bank accounts. The handwriting was hasty, implying that this woman had to jot them down in a hurry, presumably when playing along with her supposed comrades.

"…We're supposed to deliver the cargo to… whoever these people are."

"We'll find who owns them. Ace, let's send these to Valkyrie. Maybe she and her girlfriends will dig up something before we get back to Hereford."

"Got it."

Ethan quickly went to work and snapped pictures of the paper with his smartphone. A few taps on the screen, and the photos were on the way to Meghan's secure inbox.

This was a lot to take in. If the spook was right on the money, then Earth's Hope was a lot more dangerous than Rainbow thought. It was no longer a disparate band of extremist hippies; the organization had evolved into a major threat to global security. The presence of a benefactor was another unforeseen variable. Was this a person who shared a mutual interest? But at the back of the mind lay a different possibility. Based on experience, it was far likely that this mystery backer wanted nothing more than to use Earth's Hope as muscle, or even disposable fodder. They had been sloppy, after all. Ethan had known the type. The White Masks, Emily, Caleb... they were miles ahead compared to the tangos they fought against today.

Much as Ethan wanted to resist being a pessimist, today seemed like a preview, a warning. The hijacking was quite fishy in itself, but to hear that the eco-terrorists also made a move in the Middle East? That was one thing that both he and Erik didn't expect. It felt like they were about to jump into a rabbit hole. Ethan looked at his partner, who was already transcribing Nøkk's testimony into his datapad, for later reference. The woman was quite nonchalant, puffing smokes and savoring the flavor on her cigarette. She didn't finish all the way through, oddly enough. She handed the half-consumed stick to Erik, who promptly put it out and tossed it outside.

"In the meantime, gentlemen, I still have to do some digging..."

She offered her hands.

"...Cuff me."

"Eh?", Ethan raised an eyebrow.

"My 'comrades' will be expecting me to join them in prison."

He looked at Erik confused, who also shared the same feeling.

"You sure about this?", he asked her.

"Don't worry Maverick, I know what I signed up for. There's trouble brewing and Rainbow needs to be on top of it."

"*sigh* Your call, princess. If you need to bail, you know how to reach us."

"Just focus on those numbers. Whatever- _whoever_ they are, I bet they'll lead you to somewhere big."

Reluctantly, Erik bound her wrists again with the metal bracelets. Nøkk smiled in reply, perhaps just to hammer home that she held no ill will towards him. Her job was not yet over, as was Rainbow's. But for the latter, they could pick it up once they had returned to Hereford. A long flight in other words, perhaps one that would take another full day from Perth International to Heathrow.

After sharing one last nod from their 'prisoner', Ethan and Erik left the M-ATV and closed the door behind them. They had a bit of regret in their bellies. Their undercover-friend would soon be carted off to a station, booked for a host of felonies, least of all would be conspiring to commit terrorism. They didn't know what prison she would be sent to. The lady had a lot of balls to insist on maintaining her cover, all to help a group of people that never even knew she existed. Ethan wondered what her service jacket was like for her to join a mission that almost got her killed. Strangely, he felt a bit more proud knowing he squared off against someone of her caliber.

"Hey. What's this about Twitch's Instagram and bears, huh?", Erik blurted out.

He referred to Meghan's poking from earlier. Before Ethan could tell him to piss off, the blonde man handed out a picture of koala. One that he most likely "secured" from the restaurant when the bullets were still flying. How the hell did he still remembered that? The thought of Emma's ludicrous request was enough to redden Ethan's cheeks, so he quickly turned and walked away from his partner. He needed somewhere quiet to rest, waiting for the extraction chopper to pick them all up.

"Brother… I don't even know anymore.", he sighed while pocketing the picture.

...

"Maverick, this is Lion. Are you there?", the radio buzzed.

"I hear you. What's wrong?"

"It's about the cargo in the crashed truck. Bravo Team and I have checked the containers..."

Ethan stopped his legs as he overheard the radio conversation. It sounded urgent. He could've sworn the mission was done and dusted.

"...We have a problem: one of the boxes is missing."

It wasn't.

...

* * *

Aarhus Docklands, Aarhus, Denmark  
Two hours later

…

The sun had barely risen in this part of the world. That didn't stop people from getting up from bed and be about in the streets, ready to start their day. From the tinted windscreen of a white van parked on the sidewalk, one could see a handful of men in different work clothes and hardhats lining up to a security checkpoint on the other side of the street. Construction workers. A hundred or so yards away of them was their workspace: a collection of metal beams and concrete columns some fifty floors high. In the future, it would be a distinguished trade building and office space, _Spiret_. "The Spire". Spearheading the project was one Holdstadt AG, one of Europe's major players in the energy and urban planning business.

The building was still a lifeless, unimpressive skeleton as far as the van could see it, parked several meters away.

"Ready, kid?", Orson Rose, sitting beside the driver, spoke to the young lad behind him.

"Y-Yes... Yes sir."

One was a man in his 30s, brownish skin, a burn scar on his right cheek, a head of cropped black hair and a goatee to go along his rough visage. His British accent was quite subdued, but he definitely sounded like a foreigner in these parts. The person he was talking to, however, was a fresh-faced boy, donning work clothes and a hard hat, similar to the men they saw on the gate ahead. The kid was visibly anxious, and he sat beside a bulky blue camper's backpack, which seemed large enough to fit a set of construction tools without the need for a bulky toolbox. He could pass off as a foreman's apprentice.

"Here. Keep that in your pocket.", Orson gave the kid a laminated ID. "If any of the guards ask why you're there, just show that to 'em. They'll leave ya alone."

"B-But my Danish is a little-"

"Oi, don't fall apart on me now. Don't strike a conversation, it'll be fine."

"Yes sir. Yes sir..."

"Right. Once you're past the guards, head to the lobby. The guy you're looking for is this one...", Orson handed him a photograph of the person in question. "...Give him the cash in your bag, and he'll give ya something in return, then you get back here."

"That's... I-I'll bring something back?"

"Course you will! What, ya think this is an errand from your mum? This is a transaction."

"Y-Yes! Of course, sir."

The driver sighed to himself. On the one hand, he was about to bear witness to the culmination of eight months' worth of work. But on the other, he did not agree about the choice of country. Denmark. A booming economy, fortunate enough to be the recipient of Holdstadt AG's golden goose. Whatever feelings the man harbored about that company, their little Spire, or its investors were irrelevant. This trip felt like a chore. If he had his way with matters, he would still be in Moscow, scoping out places and blending in as he was fond of doing. Just thinking about the other things he could have accomplished right now was enough to make him anxious and impatient, oddly out-character for someone like him.

He brought a hand to his right shoulder, used his gloves to rub the ugly scar underneath the fabric of his grey jumpsuit.

The kid took deep breaths, trying to psych himself up for the coming toil. Obviously, he was nervous. His name eluded the older man behind the wheel. 'Isaac', he vaguely recalled. He was one of the kids who were carted off to Utah a year ago, to shield them from the mess brewing in Oregon, the mess with America's True Patriots. The powers that be deemed all the children from the Compound would still be of use, but the driver never quite grasped that fact. Until today.

After mustering enough courage, Isaac opened the van's door and scooted from his seat. He was out and about, walking straight to the construction site's entrance with the bulky backpack. From the windscreen, the driver could see the kid join the queue, fixing his hardhat to remain inconspicuous. After logging in at the desk guard, he brought up the ID that Orson gave him. The man's prediction was spot on, as the guard didn't accost the kid and simply told him to head inside. He didn't even check the bag he was carrying. Innocence: one of the best benefits of using children as couriers.

The second would be 'obedience'. True to form, the kid did exactly as he was told and went inside. Two pairs of eyes watched as they tracked Isaac all the way to the entrance of the construction site's lobby-area. He looked around for the person he was supposed to meet, causing him to head deeper and deeper into the half-finished building. Soon, he was finally out of sight. Only then could the next phase begin in earnest.

"You sure he won't notice?", Orson asked the driver. "Y'know, why a ten-kilo backpack of cash feels more like twenty?"

"Kids are impressionable. They'll believe anything we say."

The other man took one last look at the place. It was plastered with the name and sigil of Holdstadt AG, a pointless show of prestige. He scoffed to himself and turned the ignition key. He shifted gears and turned the steering wheel, guide the vehicle out of the parking area. Isaac was already inside in the building; there was no use to stay.

Packed in his bag was a cocktail that came from Australia yesterday.

"We could've made it look like the Russians are wrapped in all this.", Orson continued.

"That's not part of the plan."

"Heh, suit yourself.", he laughed back.

The driver looked at the watch. He only had enough time to drive the van about five kilometers away, as a precaution. Orson didn't want to take any chances, however, so he handed his buddy a gas mask as soon as they were already beyond the construction site's immediate vicinity. If Isaac did as he was told, he would still be delving deep into the unfinished office building, searching for that fellow he was supposed to hand the backpack over. If not and he was actually smarter than he looked, he would be calling into his cellphone. Either way, his fate was already sealed.

One last check to the rear-view mirror. The driver realized he was not yet out of harm's way; he needed to take the van to the North Avenue before they could be in the clear. Even so, there was still a slight risk of exposure, thanks to the weather in this part of Europe. With one hand on the steering wheel, he pulled up the hood on his jumpsuit and strapped on the gas mask that Orson gave to him. All this time, he kept an eye on the road. Billboards, posts, and traffic lights flashed by as he drove.

...

One left turn later, he finally found the sign he was looking for. "Nørre Alle".

"Do it."

Orson heeded the order with a grin, and took out a detonator. The gas mask and overalls were tightly sealed, enough to protect them from radiation, just in case.

*click*

Behind them, a faint rumbling was suddenly heard from the construction site's direction. The rear-view mirror revealed a plume of grey smoke, slowly rising to the sky. Panicked screams came from the distance, followed moments later by a string of sirens. The silence of the city made sure that everyone had heard the chaos. The package was delivered as ordered. Isaac did a wonderful job.

Hopefully, the kid was vaporized by the bomb he was carrying.

"Now _that_ is one way to put a company out of business!", Orson exclaimed. "Just another day in the office, yeah?"

The driver said nothing. He had done what he had come here to do. Earth's Hope would be blamed for this attack, just as they would be for Kazakhstan and Australia. Nuclear theft was already in their résumé, dirty bombs and suicide bombers wouldn't be too far from their MO either. Soon, the world would be out for their blood. A cynic would look at this charade and claim it was a waste of time. There was some truth in that, as the driver could attest. But judging from what happened last year, he needed to be more patient, to look at the bigger picture more often. He needed to wait for his revenge.

Hopefully, an attack so close to Team Rainbow's home would goad the fools to show their hand. A time would come where they'd have nowhere left to hide.

An ambulance drove past the white van and headed into the opposite direction. A timely response from the locals, but it was already too late for them. The first shots of this new war had been fired, with nobody the wiser. It was time to tell someone of a job well done.

"Bossman, this is Caleb.", the driver talked into his earpiece. "Aarhus Operation is complete. Me and Orson are pulling out."

...

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **This was originally scheduled to be posted shortly after the Prologue (I have been writing this story for quite a while, after all), but I had to make sure it was as polished as I could make it to be. Impressions are important after all. And as you may have realized by now, this chapter is primarily based on Operation: Burnt Horizon, though I also added Nøkk because her in-universe role as an infiltrator suited her here. Don't worry, Warden's gonna come soon.

On a more serious note, thank you so much for the faves, views, and reviews, on the first chapter no less! Y'all are awesome. Please stay tuned for more; I promise I won't disappoint. :)


	3. Chapter 2 - Erudition

.

* * *

**Chapter Two – "Erudition"**

* * *

Prestige Tower  
Montgomery Street, San Francisco, California

One week later

…

Erin Cosgrove yawned as she swiped her ID onto the biometrics reader. Her eyes still reddened, she cursed herself for not having slept well last night.

*beep*

The door to her office slid open, marking the start of yet another busy day. Amidst shifting footsteps and the chiming of fax machines, the brown-skinned girl exchanged pleasantries with her colleagues. Kathy Frye, easily-recognized by her blonde braids, greeted her first, joking that she looked like she just came back from the bar. Laughs and hand waves were exchanged, until their boss Lyle Harkin suddenly bumped into her shoulder, handing her this week's data logs for processing. He then slinked off to his room before she could let out a word. Frustrated, Erin made a detour to her cubicle. She walked past Maya Tanabe, who was ready to offer her a steaming cup of her favorite _matcha_. Erin held up a hand in reply, telling her that she would get one for herself later, as there was something more important that needed doing. Graphs, statistics, and numbers already filled her head.

Such was the first thirty seconds of her Monday morning as senior data analyst for Prestige National Bank, the only Filipino-American on this floor no less.

_Someone just shoot me already._

Her workspace was the same as when she'd left it for the weekend. Papers clipped into neatly-arranged folders, filling a file cabinet that was almost at full capacity. Contrasting them were data sheets organized haphazardly, reminding her of a backlog she was yet to sort out. On the glass window and on the white board, there were sticky notes detailing everything she had gleamed so far about the Bank's overseas business interests. Her computer laid dormant, just waiting for her to key in the password. About the only thing that didn't stress her out was a framed photograph of herself and Justin in their beachwear, taken in Boracay last year. Erin tried to form a smile, only to find herself holding back a tide of sadness. Beside it was an unopened cream-colored envelope that had probably been delivered earlier this morning.

At least her coworkers were considerate enough not to pry into her personal affairs.

*bzzzz bzzzz*

"Hello?", she brought out her cellphone.

"Erin_, kumusta ka na?" _("How are you?")

An old man's voice, talking in her mother tongue. Erin already knew who it was without reading the caller ID. There was only one person in her life who had an impeccable sense of timing. She took a second to look for eavesdropping ears.

"Dad… I just got back to work."

"_Nabasa ko yung mensahe mo _(I read your message)… _Meron bang nangyari kagabi_ (Did something happen last night)?"

She tried to fight the tears a second time.

"It's Justin…"

"_Nag-away na naman kayo_ (You two got into a fight again)?"

"*sigh* _Mamaya na lang natin pag-usapan ito_ (Let's talk about this later), okay Dad? Gotta go, bye."

*click*

As if she needed more distractions, more so from her old man. There would always be a time and place to sort out one's personal problems. Briefly, she reminisced about the old days, when she was still "Erin Reyes", freshman at UC Berkeley. College had been a carefree life, full of doe-eyed romance and idealistic dreams. The real world proved to be far less exciting and beautiful, as the woman had been learning the hard way since she moved to Frisco. Full of compromises and consequences. She glanced her eyes to the side. She hoped that the pink envelope on her desk could somehow fix things back at home.

But that matter could be shelved for the time being. Right now, she already had a job waiting on the queue. She looked at the data logs that Lyle had given her and flipped them open. A scoff promptly escaped her lips. As expected, her boss _still_ wanted her to look into the free-falling stocks of Holdstadt AG, which was still reeling from last week's bombing in Aarhus, Denmark. Ever since the attack, she had been looking into the liabilities and dividends that the Bank was sure to incur from their ill-fated partnership with the German company. "The Spire" could've been the Bank's window to the booming construction sector in the Baltic, only for a few sociopathic hippie-types with a dirty bomb to close it shut for good. By Erin's estimates, the failed business venture would cost Prestige National Bank somewhere in the eight digits.

At the end of the day, it's always about numbers. The girl was baffled by the big suits stubbornly insisting her to find for them a silver lining, somewhere in the heap of papers on her desk…

…

"Nope… I am not gonna do this…", she told herself.

Lyle needed to see things her way. For the past few days, she had been working on something else that would hopefully give him and the Board a different perspective on the situation. Remind them that insisting on double-dipping across the pond would have dire consequences. Enough was enough. Erin lightly slapped herself to keep awake, as she was yet to have her daily caffeine intake. Then, she grabbed the data logs and mixed them with a few more papers from her file cabinet, and went straight to the division chief's office room. She strode across other cubicles with a vicious streak on her eyes. Maya and Kathy looked on in silent awe from the sidelines, realizing their friend was about to put her job on the line. Any chance to back down was thrown out of the proverbial window, when her lithe hands reached for the door.

*knock knock*

"Lyle?", Erin helped herself in without invitation. "Doyouhaveaminutethereissome-"

"JESUS!", he yelped, then frantically typed things into his keyboard. "ERIN?! Didn't I tell you to knock first?!"

"I… just did?"

The window blinds were drawn, giving the room a sullen atmosphere. It looked like her geeky boss in the pinstripe suit was browsing something serious, or titillating, on his monitor. Not that Erin cared, as she had bigger fish to fry.

"And slow down, will you?", Lyle told her. "You don't have to eat your words."

"*sigh* Fine. It's about these data logs…"

"I told you to check on them, didn't I? These came in from New York over the weekend, and the Board wants-"

"Sir, with respect…", she cut him off. "…We shouldn't be looking at the same damn thing over and over again expecting to find a different pattern."

Lyle paused and raised an eyebrow, which Erin took as yet another prompt to make her case be finally known. She made her way to his desk, then plopped down a clipboard on top of it. The bundle contained reams of papers of varying length and size.

"What the hell is this?", he asked.

"My job is to find _all_ the patterns… Look at this chart. Then look at the logs.", she used her pen as makeshift stylus.

Alongside the data logs was the fruit of a couple of days' worth of number-crunching. Like any respectable bank these days, Prestige National was investing on multiple ventures, in-country and abroad, that included real estate, life insurance, and commercial construction. But while other institutions would like to put all their eggs into one basket, Prestige National Bank liked assurances on _all_ of their investments. So when it came to the last item among the three, the Bank placed stakes on multiple construction companies, careful to choose only the most lucrative and least volatile prospects across the world.

One of them is, or rather _was_, Holdstadt AG, a company based in Berlin that made a name for itself during the Reunification years. Prior to a week ago, Holdstadt was on the running for various major building projects in Scandinavia and the former Eastern Bloc: anywhere from condos and parks, to suspension bridges and power plants. But success also came with scrutiny- the company had also come into hot water due to its poor handling of nuclear waste. They were fined in the millions, as punishment for the power plants they had built and mismanaged across Germany over the years. "The Spire" was their last Hail Mary to stay afloat. In Earth's Hope point of view, the company hadn't suffered _enough_.

"Because of the bombing in Aarhus…", Erin went on. "…Holdstadt AG is very likely to go bankrupt next month. Everyone's already vying for a piece of their share in the market…"

Lyle looked closer at the documents. So many names of leading firms came up, each of them associated with a particular line one the graph. These were the "major league" of the industry, all respected by the world's governments, all entrusted with the biggest and most important contracts in their respective spheres.

"…But who's the one actually _making a move_?"

But on the far end of the charts was another construction company, one considered a "rising star. It had humble roots in Minneapolis. It primarily specialized in high-rises during the Sixties and Seventies, then almost went out of business when the Midwest Boom came to a screeching halt. This company held on, re-focused its assets to the middle-class residential market, and was able to build a portfolio that allowed it to survive the Housing Bubble of 2006. Since then, they remained a relatively small-time player, at least until last year. Now, they had the biggest rise in stocks according to Erin's chart.

"Ithaca.", Lyle answered her question.

"Yes. Ithaca. An American company, now competing for projects in Europe…? Doesn't that sound weird to you?"

Lyle looked at her, rather unimpressed. Not because of the point she had brought up, but more likely, he was annoyed that she was wasting his time.

"Hmph. What are you talking about? It's natural for these guys to fish for big contracts overseas."

But Erin held her ground.

"Yeah. It's a booming industry, that's why we have stocks on Ithaca as well. One in US soil, and another in Europe.", she continued. "But think about it for a second: before last year, Ithaca was strictly domestic…"

She then grabbed the clipboard from Lyle's desk.

"…Now they're expanding like crazy. It's like they saw Holdstadt's tanking stocks as an excuse to finally go ham. Hell, they'll reach Russia at this rate!"

"Oh come on, all businesses do that."

"You're missing my point, sir! I think someone bought put options from Holdstadt beforehand. Someone was banking on that company to _fail_…"

'Put options' referred to the ways someone would be given the right to obtain stocks from one company, with the intention to perhaps sell them later after an appointed time. Put options are standard fare in modern-day commerce, but this case with Ithaca was quite unusual. Erin noticed that Holdstadt's losses in revenue from the terrorist attack were nearly-identical to the profits she projected for Ithaca. It had the hallmarks of insider training. Assuming the analyst was correct with her educated guess, then something… sinister was happening in the European market right now.

"…This sounds like a hostile takeover to me. I suggest we to take a step back and re-think our investments in Ithaca."

"We can't do that! If we pull out now, the Bank is gonna lose millions more!"

"Lyle, I think these guys are playing dirty! Who knows what kind of backroom deal they will drag us into once they've cornered the market?!"

"*sighs* Erin, I know things are hairy right now because of the bombing…", Lyle told her. "…But that's the reality of the game, alright? And why are you so damn nosy about what Ithaca's doing anyway?"

She responded by crossing her arms.

"I learned in Philosophy class, 'erudition can produce foliage without bearing fruit'… We got so much data coming in these days, my job's to keep our Bank from falling into that trap."

…

"…What.", Lyle muttered with a blank expression.

"See? That is exactly my point.", she grinned. "We have data saying Ithaca's doing something irregular. Mark my words: if someone rats out they're purposely upsetting the market, we _will_ go down with them."

At this point the boss was getting exasperated, much to the analyst's dismay. She started to lose her cool, forcing her to think of any other argument to support her case. But it seemed that the man was about to have enough.

"The Board knows what it's doing. Have a little faith, will you?"

"I don't deal with faith, sir. Only facts. Just give me the word, and I'll-"

"Erin, stop!"

The luster on her face instantly disappeared when Lyle raised his voice. She thought she had him quite fired up. But rather than join the bandwagon of emotion, her boss clasped his hands on the desk instead. It was as if the face of a well-dressed California yuppie was replaced by a stern business executive, one that belonged to a man climbing the corporate ladder. Yet another cog in the machine, as if the suit was not a dead giveaway already.

"The Board wants us to focus on Holdstadt. And that's what we'll do, okay Erin? Once Holdstadt's fortunes take a nosedive, we gotta show the Board their profits are still safe."

"…"

"So find something. You're a senior analyst working here_, _not at the Treasury Department. Let _them_ figure out what's going on with Ithaca; that's their job."

Erin tightened her hands into a fist, away from Lyle's perspective. The pragmatist within her knew that what he was talking about was the most viable, if utterly underhanded, course of action for the Bank to take. Prestige National must find something that could recoup the eight-digit sum they were likely to lose in Holdstadt's eventual liquidation. However, this option didn't sit well with the empathetic-side of her, the one that wanted to tell someone in the German company about the dirty tactics their rivals seemed to be using. Someone really wanted to end the competition for good. To what end, Erin could not say. All businesses, in their most basic form, had always been cutthroat by nature – a grim fact that the woman still found difficult to stomach.

Still, the Board should at least show some basic human decency, not suddenly decide to throw one of their business partners under a bus. Its precious Bank was once raided by terrorists for God's sake! It had only been a year ago, in Los Angeles, when Prestige National had a firsthand taste of domestic terrorism. America's True Patriots. Surely from that experience, the suits in this tower could spare at least _some_ sympathy for Holdstadt, which was now suffering the same fate.

"But-"

"That is all, Miss Cosgrove. You can leave now."

And there it was, the 'Miss Cosgrove' card. Her advice would go unheeded; even though she finally showed a different point of view, the Board would not hear of it. Lyle acted as the mouthpiece, which who he really was at the end of it the day. Dejected, Erin turned around and went out of the door. It felt like she only made a fool of herself in that room. On her way out, she saw Maya waiting for her. The warm cup of tea still on her hand.

"How did it go?", she asked with a smile.

"What do you think? We've got the worst boss ever.", Erin grumbled. "Cannotfuckingbelievehejust… *sigh*"

"Hey, give Lyle some credit.", her spunky Asian friend tried to cheer her up. "At least he's willing to _listen_, not like those jerks in Wall Street."

"Yeah, yeah…"

This time, Erin accepted the gift. She needed something to wash off the bitter taste of defeat as she walked back to her cubicle. She already spent five minutes of her day achieving nothing; it would be best if the rest of it didn't go down the same path.

One name occupied her head as she returned to her work desk. 'Ithaca'. It was pretty ballsy for them to jump straight into the ensuing free-for-all of construction companies in Europe, now that Holdstadt AG was in its death throes. As Erin predicted in her head, whoever would obtain the bulk of the latter's assets would secure themselves a great future in the industry. But stocks were still in flux, the market would still be quite volatile in the short-term. Perhaps there could still be an opportunity for Prestige National to emerge as a big winner once the dust had settled? More likely, the Bank would be roped into another deal with a different company. Or God forbid, Ithaca would become so large that they would eventually become the ones calling the shots at San Francisco.

There were so many possible outcomes. So many variables for even the analyst to consider. If she wanted to stay the course, she needed to get her affairs in order. As such, the matter of the envelope would have to be resolved soon. It was still on her desk, unopened and clean. To pull out the slip of paper within would finally put the matter of last night's spat with her husband to rest. Or, it could open a whole new can of worms even her highly-analytical brain could not prepare for. Erin sat back in quite anticipation, looking at the stationery with anxious eyes.

A moment later, she brought out her cellphone and typed into the screen. She held her breath for the ringing.

…

"…This is Cosgrove.", a man replied.

He sounded tired, almost by-the-book. The Senator's office was probably having a busy day this morning, same as hers.

"Justin, it's me.", Erin spoke softly. "The OB-GYN just came back with the results…"

…

* * *

Manor Road Building  
University of Oxford, England

At the same time

…

Midday.

Probably not the best time to check the news, but Aarhus was still a developing story. From Ethan's smartphone, he read the most recent update: the final death toll was at ten individuals, including the suicide bomber. That was nothing compared to the radioactive fallout from the dirty bomb, which contaminated more-or-less three miles around the city's Docklands. "The Spire", the target of Earth's Hope, was thankfully built on a sparsely populated plot of land, but that still entailed around a little more than a hundred individuals in dire need of serious medical care in the coming months. Radiation sickness. The world unanimously condemned the attack, just like they did after Freedom Day of last year, and now Earth's Hope was assailed on all fronts.

In the United States alone, close to a dozen raids were conducted each day against suspected members or sympathizers of this so-called "eco movement". The bombing gave Uncle Sam the perfect excuse to enforce the Enhanced Domestic Defense Act, now known as the Saint-Claire Law. Both FBI and NSA had been ruthless with their crackdowns, and it took little prodding to get the National Guard involved as well. Ethan wondered if the hippies ever thought their actions had been a good idea in the first place. All this effort, from the hijacking in Australia to the bombing itself, only caused everyone to turn against them. All this effort, simply to punish Holdstadt AG for mishandling nuclear waste, a crime they had already paid for long ago. The mad logic of fanatics never ceased to sicken him, even though he recognized whatever good intentions they might have had at some point.

…

"…And how long before you can make a working production model?", a man cheerfully asked, his voice slightly muffled.

"Perhaps in two months.", a woman replied with a distinct foreign tang. "Depends on how many iterations I'd need to streamline the prototype's code."

Back to reality. Ethan was sitting on a comfortable, plush couch, in a sparsely-decorated school lobby. A keen ear could hear the voices coming from the other side of the room. Only a wooden divider separated the guest area and the personal office of one of Oxford's associate professors.

"Ah. Mozzie could help you with that, I believe.", the man continued. "His programming skills are quite formidable."

"*scoffs* I don't know… He likes to poke into my drones a little bit too much."

"Give him a chance. The two of you can learn much from each other."

The woman giggled at the notion. Their chatter continued leisurely, and all Ethan could do was wait until it was his turn for an audience. He kept himself busy by reviewing the documents given to him by one Director Kevin Sweeney in London, all tucked into a brown envelope. Highly-confidential stuff, not worth the risk of being sent through email. Ethan, who was supposed to be on his "shore leave" this afternoon, volunteered to be a courier instead. He had since regretted that decision. Times like this, he wondered if he was still right in the head, for no Delta guy would ever step forward for such a tedious slog.

Footprints approached from his right, breaking his train of thought. A woman peered from between the wooden divider to his right, wearing a grin as bright as her character. Brown hair tied in a bun, a fair face even without makeup, a pen hanged from the breast pocket of her black top. Ethan, morose as he was at the moment, could not help but smirk a little. He tried to come up with a witty sentence, but he remembered how the woman valued sincerity. Just one of the many things he liked about her.

"How did it go, Em?", he asked.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk... Prying into a woman's business, aren't we?"

"Hey, I'm just checking on you. I thought you were still…", he frowned, then quickly lost track of words. "…Know what? Never mind. Forget I asked."

"Aww…", Emma leaned in and pinched his cheek. "…You are soooo _cute_ when you're mad."

The man brushed her arm away, letting out a brief chuckle himself, which Emmanuelle Pichon found even more amusing. They were both in their casual clothes, though his female friend's fashion sense was more stylized than his. Nobody at Oxford realized that the young woman with the sunny smiles had in fact served in the French Army Engineers and the National Gendarmerie. From her manners, she seemed to be satisfied at how her business concluded. Well, good for her. Ethan reminded himself that this whole thing was ultimately a detour; he was asked to deliver a package, and Emma only tagged along because she needed to chat with some acquaintances here.

"I'll wait by the car.", she walked off and waved behind her. "Taina is probably so bored right now, she's just about to stab someone."

"Hey, you two better not cause any trouble. You're not in Bolivia anymore."

He watched her walk down the hall in high spirits, relieved that the mischief was over. Now, it was his turn to visit the man beyond the wooden divider…

…

"Dr. Pandey."

Ahead was a wide, tidy work-desk made from lacquered pinewood, filled with all manners of books, folders, and envelopes befitting a respectable professional. The desk was flanked by two shelves on the wall, filled to the brim with baubles and more reading materials. In between them was a man sitting comfortably in a big office chair. The brilliant, afternoon sun on the window shone onto an unassuming profile: a rather thin body, a well-kept beard, and a pair of spectacles. He continued to skim through a series of documents beside his laptop.

"Must I tell you a dozen times, Ethan? It's 'Harry'.", he chuckled while he continued to work. "No need to be so formal when I'm out of the office."

"Ah, sorry. Old habits…"

Dr. Harishva Pandey. A licensed psychologist of Indian heritage, an attaché in Whitehall, and more surprisingly an associate faculty member here at Oxford. The University was basically his second home-away-from-home, albeit much closer to where his wife and son were residing. He was an unassuming family-man on the outside. Modest, polite, and probably still in his 30s, Harry also looked like the kind of person that Ethan could be suckered into spilling his secrets without consequence. That _was_ his initial impression of the guy, however. The nerd-like visage concealed a keen, analytical mind, and a strategic acumen worthy of the title "Rainbow Six". He worked as a recruiter, an advisor, and an ambassador of the Program. He was man who had the stones to take over Aurelia Arnot's work.

"…I have an update from InOps. Rainbow's eyes only."

"Just one moment my friend.", Harry held up a hand. "I have Miles on the line…"

He opened his portable computer and typed a few keys into board, revealing another window on the screen. It was a video call, straight from somewhere bright and hot judging from the backdrop. Miles "Castle" Campbell. The vaunted FBI veteran was staying at a hotel and wearing his favorite semi-formal getup. Ethan remembered that today was the third day of this man's little diplomatic mission. The slight grin on his face hinted at some good news he had in store for the good doctor.

"…Sorry for putting you on hold, Mr. Campbell. What did you say again about Marrakesh?"

"The Defense Minister is now ready to play ball, Harry.", he replied. "He said we can use the Atlas Mountain Fortress again, so long as the Brits are willing to meet in the middle."

"That's good to hear! Did Nomad help you with negotiating?"

"You kidding? We wouldn't even have a meeting in the first place without Sunny's help. Rich girl's well-connected."

"Please don't call me that, _Monsieur_ Campbell.", a woman's voice spoke out.

Sanaa El-Maktoub of the Moroccan GIGR. She went by 'Nomad', though a few of the guys had recently started calling her 'Sunny' instead, made her first name easier on the tongue. Ethan could not see her face on the screen, but it sounded like she was sharing the same hotel room as Miles. Strictly a professional arrangement, of course, as both Operators were already spoken for. At least, according to the rumor mill.

"Hah! Anyway…", Miles tried to get the conversation back on track. "…Reception is positive overall. With luck, this deal will get the Moroccan Navy on our corner again. We could use more hands with the investigation."

And thus, the topic of Aarhus was opened once again. How did Earth's Hope smuggle the dirty bomb from Australia, all the way to Denmark? For a loose collection of eco-terrorists, the most economical method would be by sea- utilize the Aussies' shipping lanes as they had always done for transporting uranium to the West. Among the ports of call would be Morocco, which was why Rainbow was keen on building a stronger working relationship with the government there.

"Indeed.", Harry nodded and smirked a little. "We will need the manpower to maintain a watch at the Mediterranean."

"Should we prep for another field trip?"

"Maybe. Keep us posted, for now. I'm sure Under-Secretary-General Barston will be thrilled to know that Rainbow is doing its job."

"You got it, boss."

*click*

Ethan realized that he just had a glimpse of the workload ahead. Rainbow's envoy in Morocco served many purposes, least of all to secure military aid from an allied nation that the Team had worked with not too long ago. Normally, America would be the first to hear about a development like this, but Freedom Day and the White Masks had ended the once ironclad relationship. Outside of Europe, the Team was now on its own. And knowing the real situation in Aarhus, there was a lot more going on with Earth's Hope, beyond what any newsroom could tell to the rest of the world.

"So. As you were saying…?", Harry turned to Ethan, who promptly handed him the package in response.

"That's the latest from InOps. Director Sweeney insisted it should be delivered by hand."

"Ah. Good to know MI5's Intelligence Operations is still looking out for us…", Harry smiled, then pulled out the envelope's contents. "…Care to give me the short version?"

"They asked Interpol to run a trace on the bank accounts Nøkk provided. Turns out, nearly all of them belonged to a few defunct businesses in the East Coast; their assets had been liquidated years ago. Sweeney's analysts are still sifting through the paper trail, find out who owns them now…"

He shifted his tone to something more somber.

"…But they also think the attack is nothing more than an extreme case of corporate sabotage. Someone probably used Earth's Hope as muscle or something."

It was a theory that even Harry didn't buy.

"An act that leaves ten people dead and dozens with radiation sickness is called 'corporate sabotage' now?"

"Holdstadt AG is about to go belly-up thanks to Earth's Hope, so… maybe? Shit, I don't know. Why would they even launch a high-profile attack for something… inane?"

And on another note, who would be stupid enough to piss off _two_ governments by committing the same crime? Ethan recollected the facts in his head: Rainbow responded to the hijacking in Australia, but Agent Nøkk also reported about another attempt to steal nuclear material from Kazakhstan, a month earlier. A job that ran the risk of tangling with the Russian Spetsnaz, out of all people. This job practically screamed 'suicide', unless it had a far more ulterior goal. Even then, that meant Earth's Hope considered the prospect of raising Moscow's ire as an acceptable risk. No, there had to be a reason why the maniacs went all-in with their ultimately-failed thefts. If not them, then perhaps their mysterious backer would have one.

"Hmm… You think your version is better.", Harry commented, looking at him rather accusingly. "You think there's a more obvious suspect behind the bombing."

"Excuse me?"

The statement had caught Ethan off-guard, as if to demonstrate the good doctor's foresight. He began to fumble with his hands, not realizing that he was only giving Harry more things to prove his point. He really was a shrink.

"The White Masks, Mr. Mallory. They're hardly the only ones who can plan a bombing this complex. But given recent events, they fit the profile quite nicely, don't you think?"

"What makes you think I'm an expert?"

"Well, you volunteered for the Australia mission, even though you had rangemaster duties in Hereford… You followed every step of the hunt for the White Masks after Freedom Day…"

"And what's wrong with that?", Ethan felt a bit annoyed.

"Determination and grit, my friend. Mix them with a single-minded focus… it becomes an obsession…"

Harry stood up, placed the envelope on his desk, then made his way to sit at the opposite chair. The other man fell silent. He searched desperately in his mind for something he could use to retort his claims. Alas, there was no use hiding the connections.

In the weeks following the White Masks' attack in New York, Ethan anticipated a reprisal from Emily's remaining comrades. He felt it in his gut that the psychos were still plotting their next move, retreating to the shadows until they could strike again. Ethan waited anxiously for a chance to fight them, put an end to them once and for all. But what he got instead was disappointment. Even though he kept vigil as everyone else moved on, as other bad guys started to gain the spotlight, his attempts to find the White Masks had been all for naught. It was unacceptable that the terrorists who killed Gabe and his friends… the same psychos who attacked nearly brought his country to its kneed… had all but disappeared from the face of the earth. He thought that a hijacked nuclear convoy was the sign he was looking for…

"…You experienced their handiwork firsthand.", Harry continued. "But, I think what Emily Jacobsen did to you-"

"Stop. STOP!", Ethan raised his voice. He quickly relented, turned his eyes away. "I… I don't wanna hear that name."

A line was almost crossed at the last minute, a memory that one soldier would gladly remove from his head if he only could

"I see. My apologies."

Harry quickly dialed down on his words and backed off. He got the message that no amount of friendly speeches would work on his subordinate. Ethan still had the scars.

Not just the ones in his body. Greater still was the mark left behind by one woman in his head, something he would gladly carve out with a knife if he only could. Emily Jacobsen. The one woman who had become his downfall. She had been a survivor of a great tragedy, the same as with Ethan, not knowing that she was a viper in disguise. It was common ground that a sense of kinship had formed between her and Ethan. One that turned into affection, then to lust. All it took was one night and one too many drinks for the man to almost jeopardize Team Rainbow to their enemies. Most damning of all, he almost signed Emma's death warrant, all because one girl with a pretty face managed to get the better of him.

Ethan looked away. He didn't know how else to feel for her. Somewhere out there in the United States, Emily was wallowing in a cold, lifeless place, serving out her sentence as she deserved. A woman that he once considered to be someone dear. It probably would have been better if she had killed him in that yacht. Or rather, it would probably be better if she was already dead, as the CIA was rather vindictive when it came to their own traitors…

…

"Did you know Emmanuelle now studies AI and robots on her spare time?", Harry changed the subject.

He brought out a leather glove with crude wires and nodes running along the fingers, quite similar to Emma's own gloves on her combat gear. This must had been the 'prototype' that the GIGN engineer was sharing a few minutes ago. Ethan raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

"Is that why she's here?", he asked.

"Yes. She built a haptic interface for an AI assistant some of our students have programmed…"

Harry plugged the peripheral into his laptop, which auto-played a personal assistant program on the screen. Ethan took a closer look. The PA had the 3D-generated face of a twenty-something human female, someone he had seen in an after-action report long ago. Bartlett University. She had long brown hair, fair skin, and a freckled face. She wore a maroon sweater.

"…She named this one 'Madison'."

*beep*

_"~Hi there, good-looking! Would you like to chat?~"_

The phony human had a non-descript American accent. It hit Ethan like a jolt.

"As in… Madison Saint-Claire?"

A name that belonged to one of the poor souls who perished in Bartlett, the day that started this whole mess. A victim of the White Masks, a casualty from the blowback if Ethan's failed mission in the Middle East. And months after Freedom Day, she had become a rallying cry for Americans to stand alone together against their country's enemies, the namesake of the Saint-Claire Law. Nobody could've predicted how one freshman would touch the lives of so many, for better or for worse. To see her now in a digitized form was perhaps Emma's way of honoring the young woman's memory. She did die in her arms, after all.

"As you can see, you're not the only one left with deep scars…", Harry continued as he pulled the glove from the laptop, and turned to Ethan with a more serious gaze. "…Healing could take a long time, but do try to remember you're not alone in this journey."

"I'll… keep that in mind."

"Splendid…"

A moment of silence ensued. Then, Harry sighed and started to gather his things from the desk into a black suitcase. The other man looked into his wristwatch, realizing it was time. Questions and doubts lingered in his head. Their talk had been uneventful, but it could be resumed at another time. Hopefully, one of them had come to better terms with past mistakes.

But he had a point. The White Masks remained unaccounted for. Perhaps all this mess with Earth's Hope was but a sideshow for a more terrible scheme up ahead? Ethan watched as Harry continued to read through the intelligence reports he handed to him. The way his eyes narrowed behind the glasses, the way his furrows joined in the middle, they both pointed at a greater understanding of current events. An "eco-movement" becoming downright murderous was only a sign of the maelstrom brewing over at the horizon.

"…We should get going now. I fear this week will be a lot more hectic than I thought."

"Yes sir."

…

Oxford's campus was not at all different from home. Full of lush greens, trees, and a mix of classical and modern architecture. Manor Road Building certainly reflected the aesthetic, which made it a haunt for a few students up and about today, and minding their business. They paid no heed to the two men walking along the cobbled footpath to the parking area, talking about a more pleasant topic.

"What of your family, Ethan?"

"What about 'em?"

He was referring to his ex-wife and their baby girl. The White Masks intended to hurt them, once upon a time.

"We still have a few slots available in Hereford's housing units…", Harry continued. "…They'll be safe there. And besides, Zofia's daughter could use another friend."

"Thanks, but no. Diane insisted she and Jenny are safe in Massapequa. She'd rather I leave them alone."

The doctor chuckled to himself.

"Fair play to her. On second thought, she's probably right. The Saint-Claire Law will probably protect her better than we ever could. All thanks to the brand-new, figurative 'big red button' at the Pentagon."

Ethan couldn't agree more. Rainbow used to command many resources thanks to the American government's full backing. Freedom Day had since soured that once prosperous relationship. Among other things, the Team no longer had leeway to operate in US soil without the approval of Homeland Security. And knowing the incumbent Secretary, odds were stacked against their favor. More red tape, more scrutiny, more oversight, the whole nine yards.

All because of the Saint-Claire Law. A four hundred-plus doorstop that significantly altered the country's foreign and domestic policy. As Aurelia Arnot had feared, the Senate now had the freedom to sanction military strikes on anything perceived a threat to national security. Just one unanimous decision at Capitol Hill, and Uncle Sam could effectively sign the death warrants of anyone anywhere at any time, with little more prodding than a piece of hate-mail. And all it took to get to this point was a traitor in the CIA, a band of psychopathic patriots, and a river of blood. It was chilling to think that the only thing that would stand between peace in the world and an all-out bloodbath was a simple code-phrase…

…

"Zero Protocol.", Ethan muttered.

"Indeed. I gather your President had no choice, but still… Whoever wrote _that_ into the Law is playing with a giant tinderbox."

For once, the two men had agreed on the same thing. Alas, that was not a problem they could solve, for that was the preserve of the politicians.

A few seconds later, they reached the building's parking area. Eyes scanned for a white Vauxhall Astra among a row of automobiles, only to come across a couple of women nearby, idly chatting. One of them donned a black top and bright jeans, the other had an almost total-denim look thanks to her jacket, trousers, and buttoned-up shirt. Ethan caught their attention with a whistle. The former of the two women was Emmanuelle, having a wonderful time with one of her closest friends. The smiles and laughter said it all.

"Taina!", Harry called out. "I didn't expect to see you here today. Looking for a class to sign up for?"

Taina "Caveira" Pereira smiled back and approached the two men, her French friend following closely from behind. Ethan was a bit unnerved to see Rainbow's top interrogator on a more-relaxed mood. Last time he checked, this woman had single-handedly killed fifty-plus people in South America, during an episode that most of the Team would rather not discuss. The former Delta sniper only heard it from an old buddy in the Phantoms. Ghosts. Or whatever the 5th SFG called themselves these days.

"I just came to admire the view, _chefe_ (boss)."

"It's 'Harry', _frangine_ (sister).", Emma chided her. "And you should really find something to occupy you when you're off-duty… something better than rescuing your brother from drug cartels."

"*sigh* You will never forgive me for Bolivia, will you?"

"Probably not!", she replied in a singsong tune.

"Bitch."

Their superior chuckled again, finding their little banter very amusing. They fit in right with the students here. Perhaps that was the whole point of bringing them along today: two girls and two men getting into a car together would arouse less suspicion than a bunch of military-types in dress uniform. But in an interesting twist, it was the women's turn on the wheel. Taina sat at the driver's seat, her friend settling beside her, while the men filled the rest of the spaces.

During this, Ethan stole a gaze from Emma, who was still in high spirits. She briefly looked back and returned with a faint smirk, before she opened the door to her seat. Nothing coy crossed their minds. He just wanted to tell her without words that she would be alright, but she seemed to have gotten the idea. Then, he handed her back the fancy glove that she brought with her today. It was a small gesture of goodwill from one soldier to another, a heartfelt sign. The White Masks had not been kind to either of them, but they could pull through. One day. Together.

"Back to Hereford?", Taina asked.

"Yes please. We have a lot to discuss with our Team Leaders. _Also_, Director Sweeney wants us to look into the smuggling angle, now our talks in Morocco are going well."

The one last piece of the puzzle. The activities of Earth's Hope in Australia and Kazakhstan were highly-suspect, if not completely unusual for what a "normal" terrorist group would even undertake. Their ultimate motive was also uncertain, so the next step for Rainbow would be to find an answer for a different question. Who _else_ was Earth's Hope working with?

"Smuggling angle?", Emma asked. "You mean the one connected to the bombing?"

"The same. Luckily for us, we already have a few Operators afield. I just need them to give them a heads up."

The car started to drive away. Harry pulled up his phone and started to dial. He turned the loudspeakers on for everyone in the vehicle to hear, probably for the sake of accountability.

…

"Director Pandey."

Yet another person who refused to call Rainbow Six by his first name. But at this point, it seemed that the good doctor no longer cared. The stern expression said it all; he was back to being the boss of a group of counter-terror professionals. The man on the other end of the line was German, his voice coarse and deep. Emma recognized him instantly, judging from her brief laugh. Thus marked the beginning of a new work week, just like what Miles predicted earlier.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Brunsmeier. I think I have a job for the Grim Sky Team."

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **A whole load of exposition in this chapter, one that I trimmed to the best of my ability. I felt that after the action-packed scenes of the previous ones, this chapter can be a breather of sorts as well as a chance to establish a few themes that you'll encounter throughout the story. As for Harry, I made up a few things that made sense for his character, particularly the bit where he used to work at Oxford University. I'll leave them as is until Ubisoft releases canon bits of lore that tell otherwise.


	4. Chapter 3 - Bad News

**Announcement:** My family and I will be flying to the Middle East this Thursday for some much needed R-and-R. Hopefully I'll have access to decent Internet there, but otherwise I may be unable to respond to PMs, comments, and reviews in the meantime. We'll be back on October 23, 2019. Don't worry, I'll still work on this story while I'm there. ;)

* * *

**Chapter Three – "Bad News"**

* * *

Location: Unknown  
Time: Unknown

…

"_…Let me say this for the record: America has no more interest in conflict. The Navy sent one of its finest ships to the Baltic because we take care of our friends, as we've always done. If some people, or God-forbid other governments, are running scared, it is because they do not have our country's best interests at heart, plain and simple… What happened in Denmark is a tragedy that we are all too familiar with, a tragedy that should not be repeated anywhere else__…__ If Freedom Day taught us anything, is that we should not turn a blind eye to evil wherever it may be found, even if it is convenient!"_

…

The cathode TV showed a lady politician, bringing light to a dreary, dimly-lit wooden cottage. The woman on the screen had raven-dark eyes like her hair, her skin was slightly tanned, but she nonetheless looked imposing on her lavender suit. The press took the chance to interview her at the conclusion of some public ceremony in Massachusetts. She's a senator.

Caleb watched the blurry screen as he slipped into his boxers. He had just finished bathing, putting him in a slightly better mood. The rustic cottage proved a welcome change from the cheap motels and apartments he had been sleeping at these past few days. He continued to watch the TV while he buttoned-up a white, long-sleeved shirt across his chest. An old bullet wound graced his left shoulder, courtesy of a .357 caliber. After he was done with his top, he moved on to his black slacks and white socks. Curiously, the news story had piqued his interest, slightly distracted him from his routine. Usually a cold man, he suddenly wanted to know how the world reacted to his actions from almost a week ago.

…

_"… Why shouldn't we help NATO when they need us the most? I say to the Kremlin: rather than argue about semantics or policies, why don't you turn that finger around and point it at yourselves? We do not stoop to corporate sabotage to get ahead of our rivals! We do not sponsor terrorists to spread chaos and do our bidding for us! We do not bury the past and move on; we honor what we have lost and strive not to repeat the same mistakes!"_

…

The senator's interview was conducted in front of an 18th Century spire, a staple of America's oldest schools. Caleb had been there last year, making history in his own way.

Bartlett University. It was where this chain of events had been kicked off, this culmination of years upon years of tireless work by a single man. It was in Bartlett University where Caleb was first acquainted with Team Rainbow. At first, they were a curious lot: a mix of foreigners and Americans ultimately working to serve Uncle Sam's interests under the guise of "global security". Their equipment was varied, yet state-of-the-art, rivaling the very best of the most powerful militaries. But they were total tools, predictable and fragile. They had cut through dozens of his comrades and acquaintances, and yet they failed to thwart the vaunted 'White Masks' in the end. Truly, they were a band of meddlers to be despised at best, a thorn to be destroyed at worst.

Caleb fell in the latter camp, though. One of these Rainbow agents, a girl named Emmanuelle Pichon, was responsible for the scar on his shoulder. He couldn't wait to return the favor, tenfold.

After he was finished dressing, he tended to his belongings splayed on the floor. His trusted M40 rifle, waiting to be stowed into a rifle case. A Beretta handgun with two extra mags, and a container for a sound suppressor. Fake passports and identification papers, courtesy of the best forgers that money could buy. Two airline tickets and a couple thousand grand in bundles of one-hundred bills, all meant to provide for his next few trips. A notebook containing a list of important dates, names, and other facts. Plus a few other miscellanies that he didn't pay too much attention to. All of which would fit into a gray travelling bag.

It had only been a few days since Denmark and he was already been given another job. He had laid low long enough, and it was time for him to get back on the grid. Such had been his life since Freedom Day, a life of constant travel and blending in with the occasional trigger being pulled in places. He would've griped privately about the dull monotony if he didn't know about the bigger picture. Everything was a little bit clearer to him now; Freedom Day was just the beginning. And despite the bullet to the shoulder, despite the efforts of one traitorous woman and a supposed team of "professionals" …the wheels continued to turn. It was quite exhilirating to be in the middle of it all. The next few weeks would be both taxing and interesting, but Caleb wouldn't have it any other way.

The picture on the TV had shifted to that of a newsroom, with a female reporter supplying the rest of the news story's details:

…

"…_Predictably_, _Senator Darcy's comments at Bartlett University did not resonate well with the Russian government, who called her behavior as 'imprudent' and 'unbecoming' for her office. The Kremlin also warned that the US is treading on dangerous ground by deploying the USS John P. Ryan to the Baltic, which they accuse as the first step towards creating a larger American presence in the region. …As of today, the Navy Supercarrier is anchored at NATO's Joint Baltic Command-Fehmarn Headquarters at the Port of Hamburg, alongside a full-complement of one-thousand Marines_.

_This has not dissuaded the Russian Foreign Ministry from filing a diplomatic protest to the UN earlier today. Under-Secretary-General Barston has confirmed the protest will be addressed in the next General Assembly, alongside the issue of rogue nuclear material falling into the hands of terrorist groups…_ _In the meantime, a congressional delegation is slated to fly to Moscow this weekend, accompanying the State Secretary himself, in an effort to ease tensions between the Kremlin and the White House…"_

…

*click*

"Caleb?", a man called him from outside.

"…"

"Oi, Caleb. Are ya done?", he knocked on the door. The British accent gave away who he was.

"Yeah.", he replied to him. "Give me a second."

One last check on the mirror before he could go. Satisfied at his get-up, Caleb shouldered the large grey bag and made his way outside of the cottage. He shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight, as he had been immersed in the dark room for quite a while. Waiting for him outside was a burly man with tanned skin, a burn scar on his right cheek, and plainclothes to make him look an ordinary traveler. It was his new partner-in-crime, standing beside a Jeep Wrangler that would carry them to the airport. The thick forest surrounding them ensured there were no onlookers and eavesdroppers to witness them talk.

"Everything sorted out?", Orson Rose asked.

"Yeah."

"I got a message from your 'Bossman'. Says the Reds and Ten-Eighties are almost done with their 'house cleaning'."

It was a euphemism that meant the two groups were in the process of emptying their inventories of smuggled goods, and tying up loose ends wherever possible. The "Reds" and the "Ten-Eighties", as per their nicknames. The former was one of the largest paramilitary organizations currently operating in the Amazon, while the latter was the infamous pirate group operating in the Indian Ocean. Not content with using eco-terrorists as hired hands, Caleb's benefactor had cut deals with other outlaws to ensure the Endgame's success. While they had their own agendas and dogmas, the APP and Ten-Eighties were ultimately mercenaries more than willing to sell their services to anyone, for the right price. So far they had done their jobs quite well, even though they were yet to make a true impact. They only needed to finish with the rest of the shipments before they could be cut loose. Easier said than done, however.

"What of the middlemen in Morocco?", Caleb asked his colleague.

"Eh… security's getting tighter at the ports. But your guys said they should be done by tomorrow."

"And Earth's Hope?"

"Hah! You having a laugh?", Orson smirked. "Those bloody idiots are done for! Why should I care about 'em?"

"You were one of them."

"_Hired, _once. Just like our current arrangement my good man. Big difference there."

Caleb scoffed and started to walk towards the Wrangler to stash his things. He kept a mental note about Orson, the damn Brit who had been tagging along with him since they met in Russia. For both their sake's, they shouldn't grow too fond of each other.

The Bossman said he was an excellent asset. A former EOD technician in the British Army, Orson went on to work in private security for the higher salary, _then_ got roped into protecting high-profile criminals and syndicates when he got into hot water. He resembled his predecessor, Adam Kipper, in a few ways. Prideful and loud-mouthed. Suffice to say, he was only working with Caleb because the Bossman had paid the former to do so. The lack of true loyalty was problematic in of itself, but on the other hand he was a true professional. No inflated sense of ego, no sense of self-righteousness. This guy was precise with his trade: what he did in Aarhus was equal parts clockwork and devious, allowing it to go off without a hitch. And he had been cordial for the most part, unlike Adam, which Caleb somewhat appreciated. Only time would tell how long this relationship would last.

"…We're burning daylight. We should go now."

"Agreed.", the other man nodded. "Just have one last loose end to tie up."

He tossed Orson a gas can. The latter immediately knew what to do and went back to the cottage, turning the can upside down to spill the foul-smelling liquid. Once it was empty, he took out a lighter and flicked it open, setting the whole place alight. The cathode TV burst open as the glass tubes shattered under the extreme heat, much to the British man's sudden delight. The smoke rose to a great height, but the forest's thick canopy prevented it from reaching the sky. The two men were therefore free to leave this place, at their own discretion.

"Fucking shame it is, burning this house down… Seemed like a good pad to crash in every once in a while."

Caleb only had one joke in his mind.

"If you like it so much, why don't you go back inside?"

"You what?", Orson smirked. "Roasting people's not the most efficient way to off 'em, innit? Soldier like yourself, I expect you to have better standards!"

"Well… You got me there. Suppose I should've offered to shoot you instead. Make it look like an accident."

"Haha! That's much better."

It was time for them to leave this place. A turn on the ignition key, a release of the hand brake, and their vehicle was off on the dirt road. The cottage burned behind them, marking the end of one man's respite. From here on out it was back to work, places to be and people to kill. Emmanuelle Pichon, Ethan Mallory, just to name a few. Part of Caleb believed that it was only a matter of time before their paths would once again cross his, even though the chances of that happening were actually slim. For now, his days would be dictated by a notebook and phone. The news told him that everything was going according to plan so far, and he would be remiss to deviate from it just to indulge in his own selfish desire. He needed to wait. He'd gone for so long without a fight, Caleb could continue for a few more weeks…

"So where's our next stop?", Orson asked aloud.

…

* * *

District of Hay Mohammedi  
Casablanca, Morocco

The following day

…

A black delivery van was parked by an alleyway, just a short walk from the town square. White smoke coming from the popped hood meant that the engine had overheated. A blonde man with a scruffy face tended to it with a wrench and a large bottle of water. Another man, wearing a bigger beard and a black baseball cap, stood beside him as a lookout. They dressed like couriers, bearing a color scheme that matched their ride. Naturally, not a single soul came to help them. Sure, most people were already up and about in this hour, but they had other business to attend to. Park benches had to be filled, street vendors had to peddle their wares, and the nearby shisha bar needed to tend to its customers.

_Twenty seconds._

On the other hand, it was good that nobody was nearby. Less chance of an interference that way, and more time to focus on the task at hand with a clear head. Besides, there was only one person in this part of town who needed to be watched over. A Moroccan man with a faint stubble, just a few meters away, walking across the sidewalk with a backpack on his shoulders. He always took the same path every hour before noon for his daily appointment. He saw the stalled van and frowned, but then he realized it was nothing he should concern himself with. He pressed on, letting his apathy get the better of him. Instead, the cap-wearing courier came up to him with a map on his hand. This guy was not going to let him through without a word; he had waited for so long.

_Ten seconds._

"Sir? Excuse me sir, you know where we can find a mechanic?", he spoke.

"_Je ne parle pas anglais_ (I don't speak English).", the other man replied rather hesitantly.

"Please, I have a map! It says there's a shop down the road, but it's closed when I got there…"

The backpacker took a closer look. He had let his guard down.

_Now!_

The next second, he was in a headlock. He tried to fight back with a flurry, but by then the van's doors had already slid open. Awaiting him inside were two women, one with tan skin and dark tresses and the other a black woman with not a single strand of hair on her head. They grabbed onto the victim and dragged him inside, then closed the doors as quickly as they opened them. They placed a chloroform rag on his mouth, silencing his cries for help. Outside, the blonde man tending the hood didn't even blink, and instead he brought back the wrench and the water bottle with him back to the vehicle, entering on the passenger's side.

The commotion was over in less than five seconds. Nobody had seen them.

"We got the key man.", the airwaves rang with a male's voice. "Say again: key man is in custody. We're gettin' back on the road."

"Roger that.", another man radioed back. "Be advised: you have about thirty mikes before his friends make another call. Haul ass."

"Wilco. We're working on the trace right now. Keep us updated on ground movement, out."

There was a knob hidden under the dashboard. One pull, and the white smoke from the hood instantly dissipated; there was no longer a need to look inconspicuous. The people near the square were none the wiser, as the delivery van revved its supposedly-overheated engine and began to drive off. So far so good.

…

Dominic Brunsmeier wasn't taking any chances, however. Part of him assumed that someone had seen him snatch the backpacker and drag him inside the vehicle. If that was the case, then it was all the more reason to bid the driver to step on the gas. For now, he held the chloroform onto his victim's face, while his female comrades held down each leg. The poor guy continued to resist behind muffled screams and fruitless attempts to free himself. Seconds went by, and his body movements became slower and slower. His limbs became sluggish and heavy, until all strength was sapped from them. A whimper later, the man went completely still- he was now in Dreamland.

"Search him, Bandit.", Morowa 'Clash' Evans ordered. "He has to have a phone or something."

"I'm on it."

He wasted no time to frisk the unconscious man and clean out his pockets. A red keycard fell off, presumably one meant for a remote-controlled gate or door, and Dominic quickly stashed it into his belt-bag. Next, the backpack. He swooped it off the man's shoulders and rifled through its contents. Sure enough, there was a small handheld sat-phone tucked inside the bag, which was also filled with all sorts of knickknacks. He tossed the device to his partner, Aria 'Alibi' De Luca, who pulled out a laptop and a transceiver from her own pack. There were only thirty minutes before the smugglers would do their regular radio check.

'Grim Sky' must locate these bastards as soon as possible, uncover where Earth's Hope stashed the bomb they used in Aarhus. Dominic took off his baseball cap, relishing the fleeting moment of peace and temporary victory. He had flown a long way to kidnap some poor sap and strip him down to his undies: another item off the bucket list perhaps. The German took a few seconds' pause to observe his colleagues at work. Aria typed into the keyboard in an effort to pick up a signal from the phone, while Morowa bound the arms and legs of their sleeping target with plasticuffs. On the driver's side, Siu 'Ying' Mei Lin kept a steady grip on the steering wheel and even steadier eyes on the road. Erik 'Maverick' Thorn, who helped uphold the masquerade earlier, was focused on his earpiece to communicate with Team Leader Miles 'Castle' Campbell, who was operating off-site. All of them were wearing an assortment of civilian clothes that matched Morocco's humid climate, with nothing but a small tactical vest and a plate carrier underneath to distinguish them from the rest of the locals.

Déjà vu. Dominic was basically back doing his old stake-out jobs with GSG 9, only this time he was with a small team rather than fronting a solo act. More moving parts equaled more people to babysit. On the flipside, he had more than one pair eyes watching his back, more tools at his disposal, which was always a plus. The 'Grim Sky' Urban Tactical Response Unit had been a brainchild of the previous Rainbow Six. She envisioned it as a special squad that could blend with crowds and take down the bad guys with guile and precision. On paper, the Unit's job description covered riot response and urban ops, but Grim Sky could also serve as a covert strike team due to its small size. And 'strike' was an apt descriptor, because today they were not just equipped for a quick snatch-and-grab. They had surveillance gear and drone command uplinks. They had sound-suppressed assault rifles and SMGs, flashbangs, a ramshackle blowtorch, a hi-tech decoy device, Clash's special Shock Shield…

"How is it going?"

"Just a minute; I'm still finding a signal.", Aria replied to her.

"Do it faster, missy.", Dominic remarked. "We were exposed out there; the smugglers might already have been tipped off."

"You have to be so negative? Heh… no wonder you're still single…"

The teasing giggle from her lips only grated his nerves. She didn't know she had hit a sore spot.

"*sigh* We have no idea how many bastards the _five of us_ are going up against. I'll take this more seriously if I were you!"

And there was also the fact that things tend to go to shit for Rainbow at times, especially when the intel was incomplete. Sure, they might have ample time to locate and raid their target, but the enemy should never be underestimated. These 'smugglers' weren't just run-of-the-mill scoundrels eager for a quick buck; they had a hand in a bombing not at all too different from what happened in America last year. To operate within the Mediterranean and on European soil would demand a high-level of competence and finesse. Therefore, Dominic was willing to bet that these guys were a different breed. They had to have a contingency plan in case cops or soldiers start knocking on their door.

Aria didn't seem all too concerned about the mission, though. She behaved the same in Genoa, back when she was still a "prospect", working against the White Masks in Italy. But after having known her for a few more months, Dominic wouldn't expect anything less from her anymore. He found her too difficult to read, too enigmatic for his tastes, and that only made the grizzled German even more unwilling to trust her to watch his back. Then again, what could anyone expect when two expert manipulators were forced to work together? He turned away from her to tend to his gear, which was stowed in a bin behind him. The black van he was riding on was outfitted like an APC on the inside, complete with bulletproof glass and kevlar underlining.

"I found it.", Aria announced to everyone in the van. "Maverick, it's just a couple of blocks away: _La Abattoir de Mohammedi_."

The name was familiar. It was marked on Dominic's mental map- a decrepit meat-processing facility that also became a makeshift studio and art gallery for a few years. It was located in a rougher part of town, no doubt populated by unsavory people.

"Wilco. Castle, target building is the old slaughterhouse in Barmaki Avenue. We're headed there now."

"Affirmative. GIGR is headed to that grid now. ETA twenty mikes."

"Have them hang back for a bit.", Erik also instructed. "If the tangos see any cop cars, they might destroy the intel we came here for."

"If you say so, brother. I'll notify Nomad's people. Out."

While the radio chatter went on, Dominic took out another map from the bins: that of Casablanca's entire north-eastern 'arrondissements'. He traced lines on it with his right index finger, while his other hand hovered above with a GPS scanner. He determined the exact grid for where the Unit would have to move on foot. He also took extra care to identify the buildings surrounding the site. As it turned out, there was only one place for an overwatch position, and at least one point of entry where the infiltration team could sneak into the slaughterhouse without arousing suspicion. A less than ideal situation, surely, but it was one that they all had to work with.

By this time, Erik had already made his way to the back of the van. He was eager to take part in the prepping.

"So what's the game plan?"

"We can set your rifle on this rooftop, here…", Dominic pointed to an apartment row on the map, then turned his attention to the target building. "…Quickest way inside the slaughterhouse is the old loading platform, to the west. No idea if they have security systems in there."

"I'll give you eyes-on, don't worry. You and Alibi just focus on getting in without tripping an alarm; there has to be an office space or storage unit you can go through… Clash, Ying. You two will stay behind in the van, prep our exfil."

"Roger that."

"Roger."

"Remember, guys. We didn't come here for a shootout.", Erik continued. "In and out, four minutes tops. Anyone inside is a possible hostile, but do not engage on sight."

Everyone else nodded, already knowing the mission by heart. The objective would be to covertly seize intel from the enemy and then slip away. Hands grasped at their respective weapons, while others filled mag pouches with ammunition. Dominic took a further step by shedding the top-half of his delivery guy outfit for a more comfortable khaki shirt and shemagh, matching the black trousers and running shoes. He then pulled the charging handle of his MP7 right before fastening a sound suppressor onto the threaded barrel. Erik did the same to his AR-15.50, and racked the charging handle with a distinctive click. Radios were then checked and double-checked, as they were the team's only lifeline should things get hairy. Beyond that, each Operator only had a trauma plate and their quick reflexes to save them from a bullet.

While she tended to her own equipment, Aria briefly exchanged looks with Dominic, perhaps for one last quip after their little verbal bout. Neither took the chance, and instead she gave him one last smirk of confidence. Naturally, he didn't reciprocate. At a certain point, the van made a quick halt, which was a cue for Erik to hop off outside with a rifle case on his hand. The journey continued for a few more seconds, until the van made a final stop. The team had finally arrived at their destination, only about a hundred meters away from their actual target.

"Look alive, we're here!", Mei Lin said to the guys behind her. The slaughterhouse was in sight, just beyond the alley.

"Alright. Keep the engine running and stay out of sight.", Dominic told her, then turned to his British colleague. "Detective?"

"Say no more, bruv. If things get hairy, we'll ram-raid the gate and get ya out."

"Okay. We're going in now."

The driver parked their ride on another narrow alley, just to the south of their destination. One look at the wristwatch indicated that the trip had consumed a little more than ten minutes. Twenty minutes to spare before the smugglers make their pre-appointed call. Making a move now would catch them off-guard.

"Bandit, Alibi, I'm on the roof.", Erik radioed. Presumably, he already had his heavy-barreled rifle propped up as well. "I got a clear view of the west and south side. You guys ready?"

"Ready when you are.", Aria replied.

"Wilco. Castle, ground team is in position to the south of the target building."

"Roger that.", Miles answered. As always, he had a cleaner view of the whole operation, thanks to his satellite feeds. "Grim Sky, you have the green light."

It was time. Dominic was the first out of the van's doors, his SMG raised, with his comrade not too far behind. With swift feet, they made a mad dash towards their insertion point, all while keeping themselves hidden behind low walls and wire fences. Predictably, a heavy-duty gate barred them entrance, a gate that was curiously unguarded. The key man's card was quickly put to work, swiped onto the sensor to grant Dominic and Aria entry. A beep confirmed their access, and the two Operators continued to move on foot. The silence was later broken by a transmission from their designated marksman.

"Bandit, I have eyes on a camera, your eleven o'clock…"

*Thwoop!*

"…Okay, you're clear."

"_Danke_ (Thanks)."

He stuck to the shadows, trusted that his partner was astute enough to keep up with him. They encountered virtually no resistance so far, certainly didn't feel that the smugglers' guards were doing their jobs. Perhaps they were hanging out somewhere, getting high or smoking hashish? The thought took a backseat on Dominic's head as he and Aria had found themselves drawing closer and closer into the building's perimeter. The murals and graffiti splayed across its white walls were the only reminders of its history as an art gallery. It was unfortunate to have this quaint, yet charming place become a hideout for a notorious smuggling ring…

…

Or so it seemed.

_Where is everybody?_

There was the elephant in the room that could no longer be ignored. The place was… empty. No movement on the streets and sidewalks. There were no lookouts on the roofs or on the surrounding structures. No footprints on the dust, no empty cigarette butts on the gutters, no tire marks on the parking area outside.

"Talk to me, man. I see no activity over there.", Erik radioed softly.

"Tell me something I don't know, _ja_?", Dominic spouted sarcasm. "Is there movement on the upper floors?"

"My scope is clear. I see no lights through the windows, over."

"Ugh… Roger that. Clash, did the key man's phone pick up anything?"

"Not yet, Bandit.", she replied. "The call was supposed to come four minutes ago. Something wrong?"

"Probably. Stay on your toes; we'll be back in a few."

It was good to know that there were more than a couple heads that had the same thought. The two Operators continued their approach to the west-most loading bay, just as planned. Kneeling behind a large, rusty trailer, Dominic pulled out a reconnaissance drone and tossed it into a broken window. The screen of his datapad immediately lit up with a camera feed; the wheeled-robot had landed in what appeared to be an old conveyor section for a meat processing plant. Alas, same as outside, there was nothing but debris, dust, and rusty equipment littering the premises. The power was out and the sunlight didn't reach all the way through the foggy skylight, giving the place a dark and gloomy ambience. Carefully, he tapped on the pad to send the drone further inside. The only thing worth noting was a pair of steel double-doors that were chained together.

There was a foreboding sense of danger that Dominic could feel in his blood, yet he pressed on with the mission. He told Aria to lift the broken window while he covered her with his SMG. A point of ingress was made, and the man took the honors by taking the first step inside, vaulting over the threshold as quietly as possible. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, his breathing steadied, and his muscles tensed. He then came across the pair of doors that his drone had detected earlier- the chains weren't as rusty as the rest of the place. His first thought was to find another way in, but he found a jagged piece of metal that he could use as a crowbar. Aria noticed what he was about to do, and turned around to watch for intruders with her Beretta Cx4. Dominic, meanwhile, grunted as he forced the metal bar into the chains to break them apart. He tried his best to be silent, as he didn't know what awaited him on the other side.

*ting!*

A link from the chain had been dislodged, causing it to fall apart. He caught it as soon as it gave way, ensuring that nobody would hear the rustling of metal. Then, he signaled his partner to stand behind one of the doors, for they would open them at the same time. They stacked up on a breaching position behind the wall, and mentally counted three seconds. They would swing the doors open in a swift motion, their guns aimed at different sectors to provide ample coverage…

…

And when they did exactly that, the first thing that graced their senses was the sickening smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh.

"_Sheise_!"

Brown eyes went wide. They had stumbled across a large room of broken crates and boxes. Presumably, it was a storage facility for the processing plant next door. Now, the smugglers used it as a cache for some of their goods. Dominic was expecting a motherlode of contraband and shipping manifests, as that what the mission demanded they acquired.

Instead, he found a pile of bodies.

"My God…", Aria exclaimed breathlessly. "They… They are-"

Dead. Nothing but cold corpses strewn about, lying in a series of positions. Men and women, young and old. Most had their eyes closed, but others had the look of abject horror and surprise in them. Empty shell cases littered the ground, each of them bearing the stench of freshly-burnt cordite. The blood was fresh, oozing into the tiles on the floor. By the looks of it, they were huddled into a spot on the room and gunned down, quickly and efficiently. At close range too. Aria couldn't help but cover her mouth in disgust. She started to heave, then found herself a corner to throw up on. Dominic didn't mind her; he too would do the same thing if he wasn't so jaded. The implications of this vile act haunted him more.

The differences in ethnicity and age pointed at a human trafficking operation that the smugglers seemed to be indulging in, on the side. But for these poor people to be slaughtered en masse, the reason for it would be far too grave. This was 'house-cleaning'. These immigrants were liquidated because they were witnesses, or perhaps loose ends, to something they should've never seen. Some of them were children, just as young as Dominic's nephews and nieces. Seeing their faces superimposed on the dead kids was enough to bring about a mix of sorrow and rage in his heart, something that he kept a close lid on.

"Maverick, Castle, this is Bandit. Do you copy, over?"

"What's wrong?", Miles radioed back.

"I… I got dead civilians here. At least a couple dozen of them. They have been executed."

"What?! Goddammit…!"

"*sighs* Copy that. Do they have any IDs on 'em?"

"Negative, Castle. Could you check the satellite feeds again?", Dominic asked again. "I need to know if something went down in this place before we bagged the key man."

"Hang on a sec…"

He took to heart that the enemy should not be underestimated. That the mission should have to be accomplished as quickly as possible, lest the smugglers would try something funny. But Dominic did not think things would _stoop_ to this level. Whoever ordered these poor people be butchered like animals, they wanted to make sure that no evidence would be left behind. They probably knew that their comrade at the town square had been compromised, and this was the contingency plan that Dominic had feared. Scattered throughout the broken crates and boxes were destroyed shipping manifests; some of them burned to a crisp, while others were torn to shreds by hand. The man shook his head. There had to be something beneath the mess that could still prove useful. These people should not have died in vain.

Rummaging through the clutter, Dominic noticed a clipboard of records that was not completely shredded. A quick glimpse of the text had the words "Australia" and "hazardous waste" printed in black ink. The combination was oddly too specific to ignore, probably even coincidental, but this was the best thing they could salvage from this bloody mess. A link to this smuggling operation in Casablanca, to "Earth's Hope", and the bombing in Denmark. Dominic tucked the document into his vest, while his partner took out her phone to snap pictures of the grizzly scene- standard police procedures. Any of which should be enough to bring home and help Rainbow's next moves…

…

"H…Help. Help me."

The Operators were startled, and quickly turned to the noise with fingers on the triggers. It was a child's voice.

"Who's there!?", Aria nearly shouted.

A figure rustled from one of the boxes. It was small and shrouded, and it seemed scared to come out. Little by little, it walked to a patch of light emanating from above, revealing itself to the armed operatives. The figure had waist-length, disheveled black hair, clothes in tatters, and a face smudged in dirt or oil. It was a little girl, whose skin were as tan as Aria's. She had bloodstains on herself, probably not her own.

"Hey, what are you doing here?", Dominic lowered his weapon.

She didn't answer. Instead, she cried and ran towards his partner's arms, startling her. She and Dominic looked at each other, utterly confused. This girl was probably among the people who were gunned down here. _Among_ them, but not one of them. She also knew English, so it was a fair bet to say that she was not from these parts.

"…Bandit, two pickup trucks dropped by about half an hour ago.", Miles radioed again. "They left in a hurry, but-"

"Castle, we found a survivor. Little girl, seven to eight years old. She's, uh, unresponsive."

There was a look of horror in her brown eyes. She didn't break away from Aria's embrace, and no amount of prodding from the older woman caused her to budge. But she was a survivor nonetheless. A survivor and a witness.

Dominic took stock of what he had accomplished so far: a shipping manifest, a child, and several pictures of corpses. Not exactly the kind of intelligence coup that Director Pandey had expected from this little field trip to Morocco, but it was the best he would be getting. The smugglers had already destroyed the rest, though perhaps worst of all was that someone else had a hand in this massacre. Someone that the smugglers had been working for. Perhaps the same people that the eco-terrorists had _also_ worked for. There was something wicked in the air, and Team Rainbow had just caught a whiff of it here. Australia felt like a prologue.

Before the Operators could decide what to do next, they heard a commotion from the outside. The silence of the streets allowed them to make out the sound of engines in the background. It drew louder and louder in each passing second. Dominic immediately realized what they were. To his teammate's surprise, he darted back to the conveyor section, prompting her to follow suit with the child in tow. He started looking for a large piece of metal he could use to jam the doors, thereby preventing anyone from entering. He then turned to her with serious eyes; he already had a plan in mind.

"Do you have your Prismas with you?"

"Just the one."

"Good. Set it up by the window over there. It will distract them."

"Who is _them_?"

The radio suddenly sprang to life once more. It had the answer that Aria was looking for.

"Bandit, you got incoming! I have eyes on three pickups, speeding towards the building!"

_They're here._

"Roger that Castle! We're leaving now!"

That silenced whatever doubts that the Italian woman had in mind. She tossed her portable hologram to where Dominic asked her to, unfurling into an octagon and emitting a pre-loaded image of an armed soldier. The little girl with her was amazed by the gadget; she almost cooed upon seeing the pretty lights, but the air from her lungs had failed her. The other Operator, meanwhile, went to work at creating an obstacle for the would-be intruders. He wished he saw a car battery or bicycle chain lying around somewhere, as he could fashion a makeshift bobby trap as a parting gift to their "guests". Alas, he didn't have enough resources and time. Tires later screeched across the courtyard. The three vehicles had ground to a halt, and soon their passengers dismounted from them.

"Bandit, Alibi, you there?", Erik radioed. "I spotted ten tangos with AKs, dismounting from their vehicles. They're gonna breach the front gate."

"You don't have to tell us twice!"

Cursing in his head, Dominic grabbed whatever evidence he could still fit into his chest rig; nearly all of them were papers and files that didn't look completely destroyed. He then motioned to Aria to begin their exfil, who only nodded in silence. It was a prudent move, for a few moments later they heard the gate get blown off its hinges. Whoever these men were, they seemed fired up and eager for blood, judging from their shouts. Presumably, these were the smugglers' friends, who have just realized that someone had wrecked their hideout.

Predictably, their rage got the better of their minds. The first thing they saw in the old processing plant was the image of an armed, menacing-looking soldier, peeking out from one of the windows. The intruders opened fire, peppering the window with a stream of lead, not knowing that they were shooting at a hologram. It took them a while to recognize the fluke, but by then the two Operators were way ahead of them. If only it was that simple, as the child that Aria was holding had tripped herself on some debris, costing them a precious few seconds. The woman cursed in her tongue, and immediately holstered her weapon and carried the little girl on her arms. Now there was one less gun that Dominic could rely on, as he and her partner made a frantic escape.

Predictably, the brief pause had allowed a few of the armed men catch up to them. Dominic throw a flashbang at the first group he saw, blinding them with a bright light. He instinctively decided to gun them down, but escape was of upmost priority. He should've followed through, as one of them was able to regain his bearings and point his AK at the fleeing Operators. The next thing he knew, Dominic was staring at the muzzle of an enemy's assault rifle.

*Thwoop!*

Suddenly, the wind snapped from behind. A moment later, the tango ahead of him jerked back and fell motionless. Blood spurted from his chest and a pained gasped was yelled. He was down for the count in less than a second.

"Got him.", Erik spoke into the radio. He saved his teammates twice now.

They had no time to say thanks this time, though, as all they thought about was getting out of dodge. When they got out of the loading platform, they immediately headed back from whence they came in. At this point, another batch of intruders had caught with them, and they let loose a flurry of Kalashnikov bullets to their direction. The sand behind their feet were kicked up by the impacts; the bullets had missed them by several feet. As Dominic thought, these guys weren't trained professionals but that didn't make them any less dangerous. The two Operators made a gangway to the gate, where the black van was waiting for them just in the nick of time. Its rear doors were already swung open, revealing a crackling riot shield, ready to unleash its full fury.

It was perhaps one of the few times Dominic was glad to see an angry British woman.

"Get inside! GET INSIDE!", she yelled.

The order was followed with no question, as two bodies dove into the rear door. Their pursuers were close by, spraying gunfire at their direction. But thanks to the van's armored skin and the riot shield covering the rear, the bullets only fell harmlessly like light hail. Not content to just stand by helpless, Morowa yelled and unleashed a burst of electricity from her gadget, taking down a few gunmen with a paralyzing power surge.

"Last man! Go! Go! Go!", Dominic shouted at Mei Lin.

"Roger that! Hang on!", she replied while she floored the gas pedal.

Tires screeched and kicked up bits of sand from the road as the black van made a hasty getaway. The danger was over. Not even a few minutes into the escape, they made a quick stop to pick up Erik, who was waiting for them inside another alley. He tossed his AR-15 to Dominic that moment the doors opened for him. With the last Operator on-board, it was time to go home.

"Castle, we're back at the van.", the blonde man reported. "Full headcount; we're headed back to the airport."

"Roger that. Nomad, this is Castle. You're cleared to engage!"

The distant gunfire cranked up once more, heralding the arrival of the Moroccan Gendarmerie elite. The smugglers were likely outnumbered and outgunned; if they were any smarter they would just give up. That's no longer Grim Sky's problem, however.

At last the action was over. The bloodstream once filled with adrenaline had now relaxed, allowing the bearded German to recover from the excitement. He sort of blanked out because of what he just witnessed at the slaughterhouse. He heard Morowa ask him a question, but he responded by handing her the documents he retrieved earlier. The rest of her words were muted in his brain, and all he did was stare at the half-naked, unconscious man, whose friends had just committed the most despicable deed. Dominic remained silent. It was like a bitter memory had just been unlocked in his head. Whatever sarcasm or humor he could conjure to fight off the horror instantly dissipated when his eyes glanced at the child they were able to save. Poor kid. Her clothes were in shambles, bloodied and dirty. She would never be the same again.

"Who is that?", Erik asked Dominic.

"Survivor… Bastards were running a fucking slave trade… They killed everyone. Except her."

"Damn… As if the world needed more bad news."

She was the only one left who could make sense of the carnage they all just witnessed, an unfortunate compliment at that. Erik approached her, cautiously.

"Hey, kiddo. What's your name?"

She only whimpered in response. That told everyone inside the van that she was still in a state of shock. One moment she had terrible men point their guns at her, the next moment she was in the company of strangers. Her mind couldn't grasp the situation she was in. Morowa, taking pity on the child, set down her riot shield and knelt beside her. She needed to know if she was fine. But she wasn't the only one who needed consoling. From the corner of Dominic's eye, he saw Aria slumped on her seat, wiping off the blood on her gloves and clothes. She could've gotten them from the corpses in the building, much as she wanted to stay away from them. Her hands were shaky. Her eyes were starting to redden. She was tough and pompous when this mission started, and it only took a few minutes to shatter that image. But after seeing what true evil first hand, who could blame her?

"How are you holding up, Aria?". Dominic asked her, softly.

"They killed the kids… Even the kids."

Some people do bad things because they have no choice. Some love the cat-and-mouse sport. Others simply want to burn a path to Hell, because why not. A harsh lesson was learned today.

_Welcome to my world._

…

"I… I am Agnes…", a soft voice blurted out.

Dominic turned around, surprised to hear the child finally speak. Her dejected eyes were enough to crush strong hearts, but her next words put a damper in them instead.

"…Agnes Kipper."

Some of the Operators gasped. There was only one other person who had that last name.

…

* * *

Kafe Dostoyevsky  
Moscow, Russia

The following night

…

"_Sokol _(Falcon)_._", Peter's earpiece chimed in_._ "_My na pozitsii, priyom_ (We are in position, over)."

"_Ponyal_ (Roger that)…", he radioed back, softly.

The Kafe held a special place in many people's hearts. Tchaikovsky's music once more graced the festive establishment, echoing with conversations among friends and loved ones. The museum reminded citizens and foreigners alike of Moscow's past as a hub for rail workers and miners. Patrons filled their bellies with good food and drink, bringing life to an otherwise dreary and snowy Moscow night. There were few people waiting by the reception area, waiting their turn to dine. As it was decades before, the coat check was manned by a cute young lady with a sweet smile and anyone entering the door was greeted by the courteous staff. No wonder the Americans wanted to host its congressional delegation _here_, a few days from now.

Peter grinned to himself, indulging in a brief trip down memory lane of his own. He had grown up in Moscow with his uncle, who loved the Kafe to death. Despite recent renovations, the place still remained the same in spirit, years after the Cold War. Still standing strong. For a moment, the elderly man imagined how the place would be like in the future, when the classy tunes were finally replaced by drab hip-hop, pop, or whatever music kids these days enjoyed. He would still stand by it, surely, even if he would hate what it become. Perhaps it would become yet another sleazy bar. Perhaps it would be torn down to make way for a grander building. Perhaps all the mental rambling was simply his age showing itself. Today had been a long one, after all.

Despite this, he was still on the clock. Contrary to the rest of tonight's customers, he was no ordinary patron.

After a brief chat with the girl by the coat check, he turned left and went up the staircase to reach his reservation. Oh, how he missed his youthful vigor. He used to be a fast runner, darting from trench to trench as bullets whizzed above his head in Afghanistan. Now, he was a fifty-seven-year-old man with rheumatism, his blonde head marked with strands of grey here and there. It was amazing that the Puissance Group still had him on their payroll as Chief of Operations in Moscow. He prayed that none of his subordinates were here, mingling with the civvies, for they would have funny ideas about his attendance. But if that was the case, then tonight's meeting would also be a chance to showcase his sleuthing skills.

Peter reached the second floor of the Kafe, the vaunted dining hall with magnificent pillars. Waiters at the beck and call of socialites of different ages. Men in tuxedos toasted wine glasses with fair-dressed ladies. Every other table had someone enjoying a puff from a Bolivar Belicoso or something of similar repute. And among them was an old friend of his who wanted to meet him for dinner, to catch up for the many years since they had worked alongside each other. She said she was where the fancier guests hanged out, but she was not that hard to find in the first place. At the far end of the northwest corner of this room was the man's destination. A woman with dark skin and a blue, sensible-looking blazer and suit. It didn't take long for their eyes to meet. Peter fixed his tie and cleared his throat, then prayed to God that his grizzled charm could still do wonders as he approached her table…

…

"Ah… Pyotr Andreyevitch Kovalenko.", she greeted him.

"You have to be so formal?", he replied with a handshake. His voice did its best to hide the native accent. "What happened to just 'Pete', eh?"

"Oh, hush. Come sit."

Splayed in front was an eye-watering plate of roasted pig fillet with pearl barley and dried tomatoes, alongside a glass of four-year-old Cabernet Sauvignon. Behind the woman was a suit-wearing Caucasian man. Brown mustache, clean haircut, and a pair of glasses with a blue hue on them. He was perhaps a member of the American Secret Service, imposing yet discreet. His presence hinted at the woman's importance, if the American flag pinned to her collar wasn't enough of a giveaway. She normally travelled under assumed aliases, but one could reckon that the State Department had changed all that. Her name was written clear as day on the guest list downstairs.

Aurelia Arnot.

"It's been quite a while, hasn't it?", she made small talk. "What, nine years since Beirut?"

"A little more than ten, my dear."

A waiter approached his table not long after, to which he asked for what his guest was having at the moment. After his glass was filled with the same brand of wine, the elderly man raised it halfway as a toast. Quite a coy thing to show to a married woman, but he wanted her to feel right at home. After all, this meeting was significant in many ways. The last time they had seen each other seemed like an entirely different life. "Peter" Kovalenko was running security for a little powwow that then-Pentagon-attaché Miss Aurnot had helped organize. That very first day, each of them realized that the other had more covert reasons for being there in Lebanon. It was a tenuous relationship at first, but they appreciated each other's professionalism and tact. They had been scarcely communicating ever since, even as they worked for opposite sides of the old Iron Curtain.

"So, do you like the new Kafe?", Peter asked her. "It had a makeover a couple of months ago."

"Yeah, I noticed the new balcony upstairs."

"It's a cigar lounge. I can treat you there right now, if you like. Consider it a belated gift for your promotion."

The woman only smiled and took another sip from her glass.

"Well, well. You're moving up in the world, Pete. Cuban cigars, fancy suits… sounds like Puissance has been very good to you."

"*scoffs* On the contrary. The pay is good, sure, but they want me to take the strangest jobs too."

"Is this about Hereford?"

"No, the main office in London is handling that. Only the most special of clients deserve our _very_ best service…"

It couldn't be helped. The Puissance Group had been rather busy as of late. All across the world, PMCs had seen a significant uptick in demand, no doubt thanks to the recent machinations of sloppy nature-lovers who were stupid enough to bomb the West. The balance of power was disturbed, no matter how slightly, and it was in every broker's interest to test the waters. But as the leading security contractor on the market, the Puissance Group had a lot more at stake. It had been accepting jobs from multinationals and other big businesses left and right, hinting at some things to come soon. The bigwigs at London were probably swimming in cash right now, not knowing that their branch in Moscow was also seeing ripe pickings.

Peter sipped from his glass, eager to ease some of the tension. He casually looked to his side, as if to glance if his shoulder had some leftover snow from outdoors- it was actually a feigned signal to his backup on the river just beyond the Kafe.

A surveillance crew was there, pretending to be boaters working late at night in Moscow. Miss Arnot's presence in the country had piqued the interest of Peter's superiors. Respectable she might be, she had always been a sketchy figure for the Federal Security Service. Rumors abound that this senior official from the US State Department was in charge of an elite wetworks team, mandated to protect the innocent from the vile. Among other things, Peter intended to get her to spill at least some of the truth. Tonight's meeting should not be different from the three other meetings that the grizzled security contractor attended this morning alone. He only needed to hobnob and blend in as best he could, like that gala at Moskva-City. After tonight, he would look forward to an exhausting commute to Pushkinskaya Ploshchad, and report back in person. Part of him felt like he was betraying Aurelia's trust, but the job had to come first.

"…Which I'm sure you can relate to.", Peter continued. "I still can't believe it that you're here at all. Are you the advance party for the delegation?"

"You can say that. What happened in Denmark has forced us to… be more forward-thinking."

"Mmhm. Anything specific you can share?"

Aurelia, ever shrewd as ever, caught on and smiled sardonically.

"You're awfully chatty for a bodyguard, aren't you?"

"Well you know me, my dear. I only work with certainties."

Aurelia grinned at him.

"Then, perhaps you could indulge me first…"

She took her glass of wine and emptied it on the carpet beneath her feet. She was not playing games, as the Russian could tell. Their talks had just taken a nasty turn.

"…What do you know about Orson Rose?"

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **Ever since the GSUTR was released last year, I had been visualizing them as Team Rainbow's premier covert, urban ops guys working in the same vein as the real-life "snatch-and-grab" squads of police forces. I'll be using this format for Bandit moving forward, since he's said to be a member of the GSUTR, probably a good opportunity for me to showcase his Elite Skin somewhere down the line!


	5. Chapter 4 - Victims of Fate

**Announcement:** I have edited the chapters preceding this one. Nothing significant, but I thought I pointed it out here in case someone wanted to read them again to make more sense of Chapter Four.

* * *

**Chapter Four – "Victims of Fate"**

* * *

…

"Who?", Peter asked her, narrowing his eyes.

"Orson Rose. Former British Army EOD, former Puissance contractor…"

Aurelia produced a small notebook, tucked into one of her blazer's pockets. Opening it bore a couple of pages filled with black-inked scribbles, accompanying a folded piece of paper. This one was a photocopied snippet from an intel report, bearing the face of a Black-British male, cropped dark hair and a burn scar on his cheek. Peter hadn't seen him before, but for some reason he felt uneasy. Like crosshairs suddenly painted on his back. His guest's Secret Service lackey seemed to have noticed his weakness as well, judging from the smirk that quickly formed in his mustached face. This was not how Peter expected their little meeting in Kafe Dostoyevsky would turn into.

"…He left your PMC in 2010, built a rap sheet as an odd-jobber for criminals since then.", Aurelia continued. "Interpol says the dirty bomb used in Aarhus had traces of his handiwork. Same wires, same metals, possibly the same layout… this time he included kids to his MO, as suicide bombers."

"An upstanding gentleman, eh?"

"His last employer was Earth's Hope. And even before that, he also did contract jobs for the London _Bratva_."

The Russian Mob. So that was where the black lady was going to. A common practice for the Americans was to conflate Russian organized crime and a non-existent black hand that followed the Kremlin's every bidding. Peter was relieved to know the reason behind his friend's inquisitiveness, but he was disappointed at how she turned a friendly chat into an interrogation. To be fair, he also had the same idea for tonight, just with the roles reversed. The old man kept his cool, taking another sip from his wine glass.

Briefly, his mind reminded him of the cigar lounge on the second floor. Much merriment could be found there, from a bottle of vodka and the tip of a Cuban cigar. Would be a great way to end the dinner and wash down any ulterior motives behind it. Old habits. But Peter, putting aside the sleuthing that the Kremlin ordered him to do, genuinely wanted Aurelia to experience the Kafe's best, give her bosses something more positive to write home about. Give them proof that Mother Russia was not a dastardly villain that empowered a group of ecoterrorists. The diplomatic delegation would be landing in Moscow tomorrow, so there was still time to make a positive impression, dispel the country's links to Earth's Hope.

But back to the topic on hand…

"The Bratva? Is this why Darcy had the balls to slander Moscow?", Peter remarked.

"There's that, but more because Earth's Hope very likely has an active cell in Russia, which Rose may have contact with. You do the math."

Peter took the report from Aurelia's notebook, inspecting it with his own aged eyes. He was impressed by his American counterpart's thoroughness, reflected in such a small slip of paper. Orson Rose's involvement with the Russian Mob was tangential at best, but it seemed to be enough ammunition for the hardliners over at Washington DC. An ex-Puissance contractor was now under the spyglass, joining a long list of interesting pieces that occupied Peter's mental chessboard. The "Freedom Day" terrorist attack. The Saint-Claire Act. The bombing in Aarhus, the collapse of Holdstadt AG and then the surge of violent eco-activists and old criminals. There was a pattern he had not yet seen.

"I'm guessing you won't tell me where you got this.", he chided Aurelia.

"A Spec Ops team raided a smuggling hideout in Casablanca yesterday."

"Spec Ops team… You're referring to _your_ people, _da_?"

Peter couldn't resist being smug. Predictably, his guest was unfazed and refused to indulge his question.

"They found a cargo manifest there. They cross-checked it and saw a bunch of names linked to Mr. Rose and his Russian friends."

"And you think the Puissance Group knows anything about this?", Peter asked. "Why us?"

"Tsk, I dunno.", Aurelia's bodyguard remarked. "Can't trust you goddamn mercs to be honest 'n all that, now can we?"

The two patrons stared back at the mustached agent, whose Southern drawl and charming face didn't do him any favors. His comment was uncalled for, as his boss attested.

"Play nice, Collinn. We're in their turf."

"Yes ma'am."

Peter took note of their little exchange. The first name basis could probably indicate a strong working relationship between the two. Was he part of Aurelia's inner circle?

_"Sokol, chto tam proiskhodit?" _("Falcon, what's going on over there?")

The old man's earpiece rang with the voice of his support crew: on a boat, on the river outside the Kafe, watching the whole conversation unfold through their binoculars. Their concern was duly-noted, but Peter didn't need their help. He replied to them by scratching the back of his neck: a silent signal that told them to hold their position. The last thing he wanted was for his men to cause a ruckus just to bail him out.

"I know what you're thinking Aurelia, but I can't answer your question right now. Puissance hires a lot of people annually, and only London has the personnel records."

"…"

"Besides, how can you expect _us_ to help you if your government treats _ours_ with contempt?"

There was a hidden meaning behind his choice of pronouns, which the lady quickly caught on.

"How so?", she asked.

"That damn Senator. Darcy. After her viral statement, we expected your President to issue an official apology. The delegation looked like a first step…"

Peter took one more sip from his glass, fully expecting Aurelia to read his mind.

"…Instead, the American government sent _you _first. One of their best spymasters."

It was time. Tonight was not just a simple social call, after all. It was also a chance to deliver a different statement. To set the record straight.

Whatever jolly impression that Peter tried to create earlier had quickly given way to a more serious mood, one fit for two professionals of their trade. Cloak-and-dagger stuff. He looked at Aurelia's eyes, and she seemed to have gotten the message. In turn, she instructed her bodyguard with a nod, who then pulled out something from a briefcase resting beside his boss's seat. It looked like a router, some fifteen meters in girth, which also had a set of antennas that unfolded in the middle. The mystery device then started to emit a faint crackling sound, somewhat resembling signal waves from transponders…

…

"Go on, _Sokol_.", Aurelia bid him. "Nobody is eavesdropping on us right now."

It was what Peter suspected. The device was a Signal Disruptor, possibly the same model as the one used by the British SAS. His earpiece started to emit static. But his hands were quick; there was no chance that the woman or her lackey had seen him switch off his radio with a button hidden underneath his suit's sleeves. He was impressed by his old friend's subterfuge. Always full of surprises, even after all these years. He reciprocated with a confident smile; despite the setback she had just given him. Aurelia Arnot's reputation still held true.

"Heh. Let them hear.", Peter boasted. "I'd rather your bosses know that America's downfall is not on Russia's to-do list at the moment."

"As if we'll believe that. Is that the official stance of the Federal Security Service?", she asked.

"We do not like Darcy's preposterous claims. Half the world finds them crazy, but your President sent the US Navy to the Baltic anyway. He actually believed her! …State-sponsored terrorism? Corporate sabotage…?"

Peter made it plain. He felt his voice become even more hostile.

"…Is it so hard to accept that my government _was not_ involved in the attack? What are we to gain from bombing Denmark, eh? Your Senator is just spouting conspiracy theories!"

"I don't think that was her-"

"Now a Supercarrier and a Marine battalion are only a couple thousand miles from St. Petersburg. Your government just found an excuse to bully us!"

"…"

"And why is Darcy holding us accountable to Holdstadt? That company had always been good to Russia."

"Word on the street is, some of your urban developers are moving to claim Holdstadt's market shares in Europe."

"And? Aren't you Americans doing the same thing_…_?"

Aurelia's expression remained neutral, much to the old man's frustration. He half-expected to elicit something from her, a telltale sign about her feelings on the matter. But of course, he should've known better than to question her loyalties. Still, as far as Peter was concerned, all fingers should be pointing at Senator Patricia Darcy, the chief supporter of America's "Saint-Claire" Enhanced Domestic Defense Law, who kept insisting that the Aarhus Bombing was somehow perpetrated by the Russians. Typical Cold War shit-throwing, confusing an unfortunate series of events to a matter of national security. Some people simply couldn't resist reliving the 'good old days', it would seem like.

"…Whatever game Darcy is playing, all this saber-rattling… it will not do anyone any favors.", Peter warned.

"I don't speak for the Senator, so I won't apologize on her behalf.", Aurelia held her ground. "But between you and me, I'll appreciate it if the FSB remained civil about all this. The congressional delegation is an opportunity to keep the peace…"

"Heh. 'Peace', now is it?"

"…You can help me with that at least, can't you Pete?"

Help make it a success, she meant. America did not trust the Russian government's usual protection service, so the Puissance Group stepped in. A reasonable compromise given current events, but now seen as a prudent move by both sides, thanks to one Senator who couldn't keep her mouth shut.

Peter leaned back on his seat.

"You have _our_ word. But if you want us to talk nice, tell your bosses to pull out of Hamburg at once… And keep that hag Darcy on a short leash; we will not take _any_ of this lying down."

"I see… I'll pass this along the grapevine."

His guest smiled in response. Tempers almost flared tonight, the woman's grin helped defuse it. She continued eating her meal, as a good-paying customer would. That was when Peter realized that he should also get started with his. A proverbial mist was lifted from his eyes, and he had almost forgotten how to remain civil. In the background, Tchaikovsky's tunes reached the denouement, signifying the end of tonight's highlight.

He sighed to himself. He almost let his emotions cloud his judgement. He was really getting too old for this job.

He wondered how Aurelia could still do hers. She too might have grown tired of the politicking in DC, of all the intrigue and scheming that her duty as a State Department attaché often demanded. Her tranquil expression said a lot of her character, and much less about Peter's since he was unable to maintain a pleasant face. Perhaps Aurelia's bosses had actually sent the right woman to Moscow after all. Anyone else would've brushed aside Peter's words and flaunt their superiority. Much like that bodyguard of hers, that Collinn fellow, who could barely hide his smugness behind the fancy blue spectacles.

The facts so far were thus: the bombing in Denmark was not just a terrorist attack committed by Earth's Hope as revenge for previous grievances. It also ruined a major construction firm, Holdstadt AG, which left behind a huge gap in the construction market that both the West and the East were now taking advantage of. One American Senator blamed Russia for it on live television, needlessly escalating the whole thing to geo-political heights. To what end, Peter could not say. He needed to get to the bottom of this, but not before he finished his job tomorrow, running security for the American delegation. Puissance's security plans in Kafe Dostoyevsky needed to be reviewed tonight; yet another mental note added to the grizzled contractor's laundry list.

…

"When can you get back to me about Rose?", Aurelia asked.

"A week; I'll be flying to London anyway, once I'm done with the delegation-business here."

"London. Business or pleasure?", she smiled.

"An _audit_, old friend.", he frowned at her. "And don't get too excited: I will not involve the FSB in this. That's non-negotiable."

The woman sighed and nodded. She seemed worried about him.

"From one friend to another, Pyotr Andreyevitch, you better get out of Puissance while you still can. If the PMC finds out you're working for the Kremlin this whole time-"

"I have it under control, thank you.", Peter cut her off.

"Indeed. I heard you had a hand in that raid in Kazakhstan. Y'know, from last month?"

He knew what she was talking about: while he was playing bodyguard in Moscow, the Spetsnaz was trying to stop Earth's Hope from hijacking a cargo ship carrying nuclear material across the Caspian. An ultimately pointless affair, since the damn terrorists got their uranium in Australia anyway, but at least he had done his job.

Peter remained quiet and went on to eat his food, abruptly ending another conversation before it began. He wanted to berate her for speaking such trifles in the open. If someone from Puissance had heard he was involved in a sanctioned FSB operation, he would have a bullet in his head before the night was over. All those years working undercover and building a case against the illustrious mercenary company, down the drain because some lady didn't shut up. Of course, it would only be poetic for her, a child of the Cold War, to be the one who would lead him to his death. God always had a wicked sense of humor.

He survived Afghanistan. He survived Chechnya. He survived Lebanon. Another storm was brewing over the horizon, and he was at the precipice. The same proverbial choices were laid before him: he could either scurry for cover or brace for impact. Doing the right thing would probably mean an undignified end. But no matter; this was the life he had chosen. And he'd risk it all over again to protect the country he always loved. So much sacrifice would be needed in the coming days. So much stress and pressure. He could use a smoke right about now.

"Oh, screw it.", Aurelia slowly stood from her seat. "Let's go get that cigar of yours. Balcony on the second floor, correct?"

She read his mind once again. It reaffirmed to him that she was a kindred spirit, despite their many differences.

"Thought you'd never ask."

The dinner would end on a pleasant note after all.

…

* * *

RAF Credenhill (Hereford Base), Herefordshire, England  
Live-Fire Range

Two days later

…

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

Re-Cert Day. Part of every Rainbow recruit's integration into the unit was "Re-certification", an entire day of tests to see if they're qualified to use different firearms from other host nations. Such was the reality of working with a multinational force, but it's pretty standard as far as exercises went. Ethan went through the same thing a little after his introduction to the gang - he knew what it was like. This time, though, he wasn't the one pulling the trigger at the firing lane. He was the guy with the whistle, the clipboard, and the ear muffs. He wore the same outfit as the trainees, except for their mask. An instructor's ID dangled from his neck.

A few feet ahead of him were five men in balaclavas and black uniforms, all in a shooting stance as their trigger fingers let off one shot after the other from their L85A2s. These boys were lucky to be doing live-fire exercises, rather than the obnoxious, disorienting VR exercises that the rest of the Team liked. No, today was an old-school, boots-on-the-ground slog for the recruits, each of whom had a desk filled with assorted handguns and rifles of various makes, plus enough ammunition for them to keep shooting for hours without rest. They stood upright as they held their guns, aiming them at the paper targets down range. While the air rang aloud with single-shot pops, Ethan was ticking off boxes and jotting down notes on the clipboard. All in the day's work as Rainbow's rangemaster.

He wasn't running a one-man show, however.

"Time!", Eliza "Ash" Cohen yelled. "Cease fire!"

Ethan blew his whistle as a second reminder; in case the recruits had gone deaf.

"CEASE FIRE! Check your weapons!"

In response, the five men lowered their rifles, took off the magazines, then cleared the actions to make sure the weapons were empty. Eliza then went ahead to check on each of the trainees, while the rangemaster trailed behind her and inspected each spent firearm, one desk at a time. The ground was littered with empty brass, the air was filled with the smoky-sweet scent of burned cordite. The redhead reviewed each man's performance, courtesy of Ethan's clipboard and her own observations as additional reference.

"…Gordon, I want tighter groupings from your shots! That goes the same to you Dubois! Munz, Tunney, Kozlov… you three did better, but it's easy to do better than garbage. I want you to run more drills on your downtime, clear?"

The hothead Israeli was firm with her words. Too firm, in fact, that Ethan simply let her do all the talking in his stead. She treated the recruits like a damn drill instructor would, even though these men weren't exactly greenhorns. FBI-SWAT, GIGN, GSG 9, SAS, Spetsnaz… they were hardcore professionals about to be uplifted to Rainbow's higher standards. Should they make it through Re-Cert Day, they'd be going out on missions with the OG crew, which was why Eliza needed them to be as sharp as they could ever be. On the other hand, she might just be exercising her seniority, adding a dose of power-tripping on the side, since Harry made her the de-facto Ops Leader of Rainbow - a decision that some of the Team didn't agree with.

But that was water under the bridge. At this rate, Eliza could run priority missions with the troopers _and_ also take over training duties from Ethan. The latter would be a welcome change as far as he was concerned, however. Much as he appreciated the teaching job, he much preferred to be out in the field. To keep a watchful eye on their adversaries, who have been missing for almost a year. Freedom Day felt like a distant nightmare now that Earth's Hope had overtaken the headlines. The Team still had next to nothing about the White Masks' whereabouts nor about their current plans. And somehow, of Ethan still believed that the bombing in Denmark was not the red herring that the world believed it to be…

…

"Is that yours, Mallory?", she called to him.

He turned his head to where her face was pointing. At the other side of the Live-Fire Range was Meghan Castellano, whose short blonde hair and tattooed arms made her hard to miss, even in a crowd. In contrast to everyone else at the premises, she was wearing a white tanktop with blue NWU trousers. She was waving at Ethan, bidding him to come to her. Perhaps she was going to share with him information about the Navy's recent foray into the Baltic.

Then it hit him. He remembered that he had another appointment today. It had come sooner than expected.

"Yep. Unfortunately.", he replied to Eliza, feeling rather uneasy all of a sudden.

"Go on. I can take it from here."

"Wilco."

He handed Eliza the clipboard while he placed his earmuffs onto another desk. Then, it was off to a stroll with Meghan who had a serious look on her face. They walked at a brisk pace; both of them seemed eager to get this part of their day over with.

"How are the recruits?", the former SEAL made small-talk.

"They'll be spending the rest of the day with 'Liza, so they're fucked… How's the girl?"

"She's still shaken, keeping her mouth shut. Doc is taking a look at her right now."

"Sounds like you already got everything under control.", Ethan scoffed. "Why do you still need me?"

"You have more experience with Adam Kipper than any of us. It only feels right that you, umm… do the honors."

Kipper. That was a name Ethan thought he'd never hear again.

"I watched the poor bastard _die_; not sure that counts as 'experience'.", he opined. Ethan also left out the fact that he was tortured by Adam, albeit briefly.

"It's still more than the rest of us got.", Meghan shrugged. "Just get the kid to open up; we're gettin' a little desperate here in case you haven't noticed."

Desperate would be an exaggeration. Ethan's comrades no longer had any right to ask Uncle Sam for resources and assets, ever since America approved the Saint-Claire Act last year. The old Rainbow Six, Aurelia Arnot, was now their only ally in DC, but even she would have to fight an uphill battle to give her boys and girls what they needed, even for non-critical stuff. Psychologists, fabricators, consultants. The biggest handicap of all was intelligence, and without direct access to NSA, ONI, and CIA analysts, Team Rainbow was forced to ask for help elsewhere. No wonder Hereford felt a bit empty today; many of the Operators were out-of-country trying to drum up support from their governments or keeping their ears close to the ground.

The path leading out of the Range continued into another structure at Hereford Base: Building E, where the 'unofficial' UN and NATO liaison offices were located. The premises were guarded by a few Puissance Group contractors in grey fatigues and baseball caps. Not everyone in Rainbow liked them, but then-Director Arnot insisted on a stop-gap measure to meet Hereford's security needs when America pulled its funding from them. Yet one more thing that they could all thank the Saint-Claire Act for. Meghan showed the guards her ID, as did Ethan, and they nodded back, lifelessly like automatons.

"Would it kill you to just smile and wave boys? Geez…", the blonde woman mumbled.

On the second floor of Building E was a long hallway, white and sterile like the rest of the place's interiors. Each door led to an office space of some import, therefore should be left alone. Except for the last one. There was a hospital trolley just outside of it, containing all sorts of medicines, apparatus, and foodstuffs. At that moment, Ethan felt tension on his gut; the gravity of the situation had finally taken hold. It had been a while since he had seen the horrors of war… in the eyes of a little girl. An unnatural and unfortunate reality of the real world. Meghan sensed what he was thinking, sympathizing with him.

"If it were up to me, she'll stay in Morocco while we try to get her into Witness Protection, back Stateside. She knows a ton about the bastards who did this to her."

"Yeah. But in the meantime, she's cooped up here like some runaway. This feels so wrong, Meg."

"That's what I told Harry."

"Hmph. And what did that smartass say?"

"*sigh* He sipped his Earl Grey and said: "Children may be the victims of fate, but they will not be the victims of our neglect." So, yeah_… _we're a daycare now apparently."

_The fuck? He's quoting JFK now?_

As if Ethan needed additional reminders how condescending and pompous his new boss could sometimes be. All the more reason, perhaps, to question Harry's wisdom to bring a little girl into one of the world's most secretive, tightly-locked military bases out on a whim. To be fair, the child was _not_ an ordinary eight-year-old…

…

A figure had emerged from the room. A man with a gruff disposition and a supposedly-friendly face.

"Doc.", Meghan called to him. "How's our little angel?"

"She's calmed down; her wounds were nothing I couldn't treat. Vitals are normal aside from a bout of malnourishment…"

The copper-skinned Parisian wore a buttoned-up white shirt with a stethoscope resting around his neck. His rough face was serene, but his dark eyes told a different story- as if he was holding back a flood of negative emotions. Still, he remained professional with Meghan.

"…her emotional health is a different matter altogether, but Emmanuelle is keeping her occupied."

"Em's in there?", Ethan blurted out.

"Running a psychotherapy session with her AI, yes. I asked for her help."

The next moment, they heard glass being shattered on the other side of the door. The three Operators were startled, but only Ethan dared to open it and cross the threshold. The room he came across had the same sterile environment as the hall, but with a medical bed, desk, and an upended food tray. A bowl of soup was shattered on the floor, leaving quite a mess, right beside the Frenchwoman who was cleaning it up with a rag. The culprit was Rainbow's "little angel", slunk on the bed, silently sobbing. Emma's concentration abruptly ended when her green eyes met with Ethan's grey ones. Awkward smiles and handwaves were exchanged. Before the man could speak, she placed a finger on her lips, telling him to keep quiet. She then pointed a thumb behind her.

On the bed was a girl no more than eight years of age, dark-haired, tan-skinned, her flesh dotted with scrapes and bruises now covered in bandages. Specialist Brunsmeier's after-action report had given her a name. Agnes Kipper, daughter of Adam Kipper, a child rescued by the "Grim Sky" Team in Casablanca just a few days ago. A victim of some human trafficking operation, and apparently its only survivor. She wore a medical gown that matched her bandages, and she was sitting in bed curled in almost-fetal position. Her eyes were blank, staring at nothing but the space beyond her knees, and ignoring the two strangers in the room.

Ethan wanted to ask if Emma was fine. When he heard the bowl shatter, he thought that she and the kid had gotten into a fight. First thoughts were not always reliable, as the man knew that she wouldn't be caught dead having a spat with a kid.

Yet one of the things he liked about her.

"_Elle ne veut pas me parler _(She doesn't want to talk to me).", Emma whispered.

The woman was wearing a hi-tech, haptic interface glove over her right arm: the AI that Doc Kateb had mentioned. Her use of French was deliberate, probably to keep Agnes from tuning into things she shouldn't understand.

"Even to Madison?", Ethan motioned to her glove.

"Mmhm."

She flicked the switch on the wrist, and the device briefly came to life, once again projecting the image of a young woman, "Madison" - the avatar for Emma's artificial intelligence.

_"~Hey, sweetie! Would you like to chat?~"_

Agnes didn't respond, leaving Ethan puzzled. A cool hologram would normally be a surefire way to get any kid's attention. But rather than converse with the fake, yet bubbly, person, she closed herself off even more. But it was easy to tell the reason behind her stubborn silence. Spending months at the mercy of some sick bastards would make any child be lost in their own space.

Even the toughest, most battle-hardened man would know pause, seeing this girl. Ethan, as a father himself, couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Agnes was only a few years older than his own daughter, at a time in their lives where innocence was still sacrosanct. Jenny was still learning the ways of the world, but Agnes had already seen the worst of it. Pitying her, Ethan projected the image of his daughter to Agnes. His child was in the loving company of her mother and grandmother. But the girl on the bed was fresh out of a literal slave pen with the scars to prove her plight.

Whatever happened to Agnes, it was no doubt due to the actions of her despicable father, in some way or form. If only her nightmare ended with his death…

…

Ethan approached her, cautiously. But before he could introduce himself, the girl whimpered and covered her nose.

"You smell like gunpowder.", Emma spoke softly. "Did you just come from the Range?"

A whiff from his own black shirt confirmed it. Awkward stares and dead silence. Then, the man hurried to one of the cabinets, rummaging to find a shirt to fit his size. The room was a makeshift clinic, after all. Emma turned away while he undressed, slightly snickering, while she fiddled with her fancy glove. Ethan returned with a fresh top and a forced yet sweet smile. He wanted a do-over of their introduction.

"Hi there, little lady!"

"…"

"Agnes.", Emma called to her. "This is my friend, Ethan. He's from America just like you. He wants to see if you're okay."

Again, the little girl didn't reply, nor did she grace their presence with as much as a glare. She closed herself even more, visibly uncomfortable, but at least she wasn't covering her nose. Emma looked at her friend and shrugged. 'I told you so', her gesture meant. The man didn't care much for her teasing though. Instead, he scooted across the bed, getting closer to the girl. His own daughter Jenny had been a handful, and he believed he had enough experience and knowhow to approach a withdrawn child.

"And we have the same shirt, see?", he spoke to Agnes heartily, picking up the slack from his French colleague. "You know what that means?"

"…"

"That means I'm your friend. That means I have to look out for you now."

_"~Yeah yeah! We're friends alright!~"_

Agnes felt unnerved at the little hologram, prompting Ethan to tell his colleague to shut it off. Next, he grabbed a tray from the table and picked up a bowl of soup. He offered it to Agnes, smiling as any parent would. She shook her head, as expected, so the man took a spoonful and slurped it up. He continued to entice the little girl, who remained stubborn in her silence. Again, this was expected of her. There was more than one way to build trust with children.

"It's okay if you don't wanna talk.", Ethan said with his mouth full. "Your dad was the same…"

"Huh?"

And just like that, he got a reaction. Emma's eyes went wide, amused at how quickly he got Agnes to open up, even if it was just whimper. The man paid no heed and continued eating his soup. He wanted to show the kid that he and his friends were no threat to her.

But he just had to bring up her father, against sound wisdom. His brain started to replay a scene, one he was tempted to share with Agnes, but found no heart to do so, as it was a harsh, unforgiving truth. He vividly recalled his first ever meeting with Adam Kipper. A border checkpoint in the Middle East, a group of Delta Force operators huddled around a prisoner that one CIA Case Officer Emily Jacobsen had captured the night before. Adam went by the nickname "Mohandes", the Engineer, when he still passed himself off as a chemist selling dirty bombs to terrorists. Emily, whose connection to the White Masks was unknown back then, tried to beat the truth out of the man but he didn't budge. The difference between friend from foe was quite clear-cut then. Simpler times.

"…His name is Adam, right? You look like him… Well, except for your eyes. Must be your mother's. I bet you have her smile too."

The tease made her hide her face. Not out of fear, but of embarrassment- an improvement over her previous mood. Already, some significant progress had been made, much to Emma's silent surprise.

"Don't worry, kid.", Ethan assured Agnes. "You'll be safe here with us. We're gonna get you home."

One more time, he offered Agnes a bowl of soup. This time, much to Emma's quiet surprise, the little grabbed it with her lithe hands and slurped it down, burping afterwards. Ethan smiled and remained friendly; Doc was right in saying that the poor girl was starving. Any child would refuse food if surrounded by strangers. But luckily, one's paternal instincts prevailed. Any good person would be appalled to see the little ones suffer. He looked at Agnes's scrapes and bruises, hiding behind bandages. The gashes on her knees meant that she was likely forced to work at somewhere dank and cruel for God-knows-what. Her captors could've tied her wrists for a very long time, slightly lacerating them. Her cheeks had tiny cuts and leftover swells, possibly from being hit in the face a number of times.

_Poor thing._

In that tiny space at the bed, for a brief moment, Ethan swore to find the bastards who did this to her and field dress them like a deer.

"You know where your mom is? Or your uncle or auntie? We can call them right now and tell them you're alright."

Family. Upon hearing those words, Agnes broke down into tears, finally giving in to the weight in her heart. Immediately, Ethan gave her a consoling hug; his friend looked to her side unable to bear the sight of a crying little girl. That's just it: Agnes finally found a shoulder to cry on. Emma smiled a little, her eyes slightly watering themselves, happy to see the victim finally found some measure of strength.

"It's okay… No bad men are coming to get you now."

Agnes pulled away, wiping her eyes and nose. She seemed to be in the mood to answer questions.

Of course, Ethan knew this was wrong to some extent. This girl needed a psychiatrist, not an interrogator. She needed to get home. She needed to get back to playground, or the school, or an amusement park… Anywhere to keep her mind off the harsh reality she was forced into. But Team Rainbow brought her to Hereford because she was the only survivor of a massacre, one that stemmed from their investigation on Earth's Hope. The man prayed that she could recollect the time she was held captive in Morocco, no matter how difficult it might be on her tiny little head.

"Do you know what happened to you?", Ethan asked.

Surprisingly, Agnes responded without a second thought.

"Mom… Mom was driving me to school. A policeman pulled us over, Mom got out of the car… Then someone covered my mouth… I… everything went black after that."

She was sedated. Chloroform, or something similar. Either way, it was not something that should be used on a child.

"…I woke up… I don't know where… There were other kids…"

"And your Mom? What happened to her?", Emma asked, thinking it was her turn to contribute.

The little girl, on the other hand, turned away. Agnes felt another wave of tears form in her eyes, but she bravely fought them off. Her silence told the two Operators about the fate of her mother - yet another crime that these criminals were guilty of, for sure.

"…Do you know where Daddy is?"

Ethan was taken aback for a moment. He scoured his mind for a less-straightforward answer, as a child would not take well to hear that her father had been dead for almost a year. Briefly, he exchanged glances with Emma, who was also at a loss of words.

"He's… not here right now. I haven't seen him for months."

Agnes lowered her head, struggling to contain the bad emotions. But trusting his gut, Ethan quickly held her hands, as any father would. He didn't want to see her break down in tears, now that she was doing a good job of fighting them.

"Hey, all that matters is that you're okay. You're safe with us."

"That's what the bad men said. They said we were safe with them, then they pointed guns at us. They shot everyone. I… I played dead.", Agnes spoke matter-of-factly.

"Did you see their boss?"

"An old white man… he had glasses. He talked to the other bad men… Said something about 'moss' and 'cow'."

"You heard him talk in English? Was he American?"

"Mmhm. M-Maybe? He… He said me and Mom were 'payment'… for what Daddy did *sniffles*."

And of course, this all went back to Adam Kipper, her father. The way she described her kidnapping, it's likely she was taken either during the Freedom Day attacks; Ethan remembered Adam say something to that effect. His family were taken as leverage, or worse. But what kind of sick bastards would use one man's wife and little girl as payment for his failure? The more Ethan knew about this little girl, the more he realized that the hell she went through was no coincidence. Nobody else would have any interest in her and her mother save for the White Masks - the terrorists whom Adam worked for. There were so many questions that popped up in the Operators' heads, but they knew that this poor little thing was just about reached her limit.

"I want to go home... I want to go home..."

"Alright Agnes. We'll do what we can to get you home… And thanks for what you said, it'll help us a lot."

She didn't look all assured, but at least she had calmed down. Ethan offered her a piece of bread from the tray, to go along with the soup she slurped. He also took a piece for himself so that they could eat together. He wanted her to feel safe, and he meant it. The time would later come for Agnes to lie down and rest.

...

The two Operators left the room several minutes later. The questioning had been a success to some extent, something that Meghan needed to hear about.

It was insightful to say the least. Amazing even, given how much Agnes was able to recall even after all the horrible things she was put through. Sadly, she did not know much about the smuggling operation nor about its connection to Earth's Hope. Ethan half-expected her to mention a scary-looking man with a white ballistic mask, but perhaps that would be too scary for a kid to even remember. Once more, he was puzzled why Harry insisted on bringing Agnes to Hereford, rather than immediately send her back to the States. True, it was very likely that they would never see her again once she was returned to her relatives, but perhaps the chance to obtain firsthand eyewitness account from anyone trumped any and all sense of logic. It was starting to feel that Meghan was right- Rainbow was getting desperate.

A terrible shame, as today could have been a chance to prove that Earth's Hope was an entirely different organization. There was something ominous about Agnes's testimony, however. Ethan could feel it in his gut that what she said to them was too familiar. Like he had seen him before…

"Well that was… interesting.", Emma spoke as she closed the door behind them. "I thought I had everything under control."

Ethan pondered about what she meant. He deduced that she was disappointed her cool AI program didn't do much good back there; it probably would be a big blow to any self-styled computer prodigy.

"Can't you tweak Madison to act more human?"

"Eh, that's the whole reason I was there. I thought I had got the programming right…"

She pouted, playfully, then turned her gaze towards him.

"…Good thing you were there with me."

"Eh?"

"You're good with kids."

And just like that, Ethan felt like someone kicked him behind the knee, caught off-guard by such an absurd statement. He suddenly wanted to go back to the Firing Range, back to check on the recruits running the Re-Cert.

"I try my best.", he tried his best not to stammer.

"That's… kind of hot, actually."

Emma giggled to herself, then turned away. She thought the man didn't notice the faint redness that suddenly appeared on her freckled cheeks. He, on the other hand, was starting to get really uncomfortable with their conversation. Like she was doing her best to make it awkward, and avoid a topic that had been bothering Ethan for quite a while now. Alas, that topic had to be shelved for the time being.

Just outside by the hall, Meghan and Gustave were having a serious discussion of their own. Presumably, something related to the former's intention to get Agnes back to the US as soon as possible. The good doctor was advising her as best he could, since even _he_ noticed that the little girl was not yet out of the woods. Ethan would attest to that, seeing how she had been unresponsive until he namedropped her father. Pretty much a low blow, but the little interview needed to get on track as soon as possible. He called the blonde woman's attention with a handwave, eager to deliver the news. He wanted to get back with the recruits, before they were literally chewed out by Rainbow's friendly neighborhood Israeli.

"We're done, Valk."

"Did the kid give you something?", she asked while walking towards him.

Agnes only gave one thing of import.

"Possible description of the ringleader. Tango's some white old dude with glasses, possibly American… We could check that with our database of all known Earth's Hope associates."

"That's _still_ not much to go on.", Meghan shook her head.

"I know, but it's better than what he had a few minutes ago. Maybe you can ask McKinley to look into it."

"Warden? Why?"

There's one last thing in Agnes's statement. A child's ears had heard two words that didn't make sense at first. 'Moss' and 'cow'.

"Moscow.", Ethan answered. "This dude has something to do with Moscow."

…

* * *

Palo Alto, San Francisco, California  
At the same time

…

Same shit, different night. Caleb peered beyond the windshield of his van, tapping a finger on the steering wheel to pass the time. Patience tested yet again. Like in Aarhus, he found himself in another stakeout, in the same driver's seat, but this time he was parked somewhere in an affluent neighborhood. He wore a grey jacket to cover a white shirt, marking him as a delivery guy working the odd shifts much like his partner. Beyond them was a roundabout leading to the entrance of a high-class residence, illuminated by streetlamps and a few solar lights lining the front yard.

On the gate were two young men, shy of eighteen years of age, wearing the same outfit as Caleb. They were handing down large, brown boxes from the white van and placing them down on the courtyard, where a pencil-pusher checked through each one. Such was the life of two teenaged schmucks earning a dollar an hour. Though the backdrop might be different, the mission remained the same. Caleb only needed to stay inside the van, observe the target, then drive like hell when it was time to flee. Hopefully, schedule would be as spotless and clockwork like the last one.

A few seconds in, he heard a cellphone vibrate. It was Orson's, who he hastily pulled it out of his jean pocket to check on it.

"Oi. It's him.", he tapped his partner's shoulder.

Caleb sighed and took the device from his hand. The caller's name made it clear that he needed to be on his best behavior tonight.

_About damn time._

"*ahem* Bossman…", Caleb greeted. "…Been a while since we heard from you sir."

"It's called 'compartmentalization', son. I thought you're familiar with the concept."

Secretary Robert Treadway. The old bastard was still up at this hour, no doubt signing papers or making calls as his present position demanded of him. A quick check on the watch told Caleb that it was around 0215 hours at DC. Not bad for a 65-year-old to keep up, but he shouldn't let time take a toll on him.

"Not always the best idea. You're half an hour late for our radio check."

"If only I had you to help me run Homeland Security.", Treadway joked. "Are you still in position?"

"Yes sir…"

Caleb heard a sigh of relief from the old man, who presumably was suffering the drawbacks of his age. But in a few months, Treadway would be retiring from his post at Homeland, freeing him to pursue this whole… "vision" that took decades to realize. The White Masks, the meticulous planning, the massive resources, the thousand lives spent like chips at a casino. One couldn't help but wonder if the person behind it all was still committed to it, after everything that had happened over the years. Aarhus had been a success; San Francisco would be next. The risks could not had been higher. Ever since Treadway decided to use politics to help the plan move forward, the world had been slowly turning into a powder keg. And much as Caleb would prefer to test his wits against trained killers victims, he could not help but wonder if his boss had the right idea for tonight.

"…Is this how you really want Phase Five to proceed? This is the Senator we're talking about."

One woman made the news recently, so it _sorta_ made sense for the plan to revolve around her. And Palo Alto was near the heart of America's stinking rich and infamous, so the message would be more keenly felt. Still, there were better places and better people to target, to put fear in the country's heart a second time.

"After all these years, _only_ _now_ you decided to get cold feet?", Treadway jeered.

"…"

"No hesitation, Caleb. Just stick to the plan; it'll all come together in due time. I promise."

"What about our smuggler friends?"

The man on the other end fell silent. There was still the matter of the GIGR raid in Casablanca, barely two days ago, lumped together with the failure in Kazakhstan and Australia. Caleb's hired hands in Morocco were only partly successful in eliminating the loose ends they left behind, smuggling Orson's bomb to Denmark. Somewhere along the line, an idiot made a slip and brought Moroccan law enforcement crashing through the front gate of their little hideout. The timing was impeccable, and the whole site was sealed off by the cops. The cause for the slip-up was uncertain; perhaps the old slaughterhouse was being surveilled for a while now, or perhaps there had been a mole embedded in Earth's Hope. If the latter was true, then the cells in Australia and Russia could look into it.

Or it could be that Team Rainbow was up to their old habits again, sticking their collective noses into where Caleb least expected them to. They had the timing of little gremlins. Part of him boiled in anger at the thought of being outmaneuvered by a group of overpaid hero-wannabes, yet again. The other part was happy to see them return; he couldn't wait to cross paths with them and blow their heads off.

"Leave them to me.", Treadway later replied, his voice had reverted to a colder tone. "Focus on where you are now."

"Roger that."

"Is Orson with you?"

Caleb turned to his side. The British man on the passenger seat had an insufferable smirk on his face, amused to hear about how important he was.

"Right 'ere.", he leaned into the phone.

"Ah, Mr. Rose. I hope you still know Earth's Hope's old war cry. Make it sound good."

"Wish I could charge ya extra for that, old man. But yeah."

'War cry', Caleb scoffed. His boss was at it again with the strange spectacles to get the media's attention. Remind everyone about the bad guys. To be fair, though, Freedom Day proved that such circus acts could be effective, if expertly employed. All those plots from last year, some of which were needlessly convoluted, had forced the public to remain wary and scared. To this day, people still feared the image of a hooded gunman, wearing a lifeless ivory-white face, months after they were "dealt with" by their heroes in New York and elsewhere. And when enough people remained scared, governments would have no choice but to react. Hence the Saint-Claire Law.

And in the next few minutes, another image of infamy would be burned into the public's consciousness. The Saint-Claire Law would be put to the ultimate test, once its chief proponent was targeted. Another victim to be added to the pile, unfortunate yet necessary, as decided by fate.

Beyond the windshield, Caleb saw a figure emerge from the front door of the luxurious mansion. An elderly woman, black-haired with greyish highlights, wearing a red office suit and talking to her cellphone. Tonight's deliveries were intended for her, some brand-new computer equipment for her staff to work with. The cover story was that the packages were fresh from Japan, and the good Senator herself insisted on having them delivered to her address in San Francisco, for her plans to establish a satellite office in the West Coast. Her chief aide was from this city after all, so the cops would probably buy the tall tale.

"Sir. Primary Target's on sight, by the foyer.", Caleb gave an update.

"Perfect. You may execute when ready, gentlemen."

This time, the payload would be a lot tamer. They needed a show, not a slaughter.

"We'll get the timing right, sir. Out."

*beep*

…

* * *

…

"Abby, tell me you have good news.", Erin Cosgrove talked to her laptop.

The senior analyst of Prestige National Bank California was making a vid-call in a fancy living room, a fancy house she had set foot on before. Her screen showed her blonde colleague once again pulling an all-nighter at the office back in the Financial District. Both of the women were dead tired for a chat, but Erin had just called in a favor. She needed to see it through, as if her fate hanged in the balance.

"I wish.", Abigail Frye sighed. "Your list only gave me bad hits."

"Ah crap, what about the last one? You know, the one from Minnesota?"

"That account was registered to a snack bar in Worthington. Penny's Place. It's been closed since 1975."

"*sigh* Dammit!"

Erin almost slammed the desk she was working on, until she realized at the last minute that it was not hers. No, it belonged to Justin's boss, Senator Patricia Darcy, who was just outside by the foyer. Erin's husband was working overtime tonight, and he picked Erin up from Downtown so that they could eat dinner together. He told her that Darcy needed a hand with a few last-minute packages. Naturally he accepted, as he was the old woman's chief aide and gopher. If only Erin could remind him that he was her husband. And they needed to finally sit down on the OB-GYN's letter - a pink envelope left at home, unopened since it came to her office a few days ago.

When she broke the news to Justin, he immediately shut her off, fearing the words on the paper would only shatter his dreams. Or rather, he_ already knew_ they would, and he was still in denial about the whole thing.

If only that was all that Erin had to worry about. She still had the irregular financial records to stress over, the ones she recently brought up with her boss, Lyle Harkin. Based on her analysis, Prestige National Bank was doing business with an American construction firm, Ithaca, that was leveraging all its assets for a hostile takeover of Holdstadt AG, the German company that was severely impacted by the Aarhus terrorist attack. A little more digging on her part, and she discovered that Prestige National was not the only one putting money into Ithaca, a relative newcomer to the international construction market. There were other businesses and individuals who heavily invested on the company, enough to create a list. But as tonight had told her, nearly all of these entities were bogus, defunct, or already been liquidated.

If this was part of some sick conspiracy to run Holdstadt out of business, then Prestige National was in the middle of it. As far as morals were concerned, Erin would be damned if her employer was embroiled in a trading scandal on her watch. Alas, things were not all good even on this front as well; she couldn't just take a break.

"Girl… Maybe you should just listen to Lyle and drop this.", Abby consoled her.

"No! I know I'm onto something. And I won't let that guy stonewall me… Goddamnbrownnosinglittle…"

She turned away from the laptop, wiping the tears from her eyes before they could fall. She was frustrated. At her job. At her husband. Even her one chance to do good, a consequence of serving under the Treasury Department, seemed to be in vain.

"Erin?"

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Abby. Thanks for the help."

Accepting defeat, the woman closed her laptop and stashed it back to its carrying case. Her list turned out to be a dead-end. All manner of vile, venomous thoughts occupied her mind, if only so that she could vent her frustration on something.

As she stood up from the desk, she saw Senator Darcy on the foyer, talking to her cellphone. Her red suit marked her as a woman of class, running roughshod in a man's world, making a name for herself in matters of national security. She made enemies, that was for damn sure, as what she said on TV not long ago was taken as a bad omen for another needless conflict with Russia. Darcy's voice and choice of words on the phone seemed like she was having a heated debate with someone else. Not a stretch to believe, considering the shit she spouted on national television not too long ago. Erin's eyes briefly met with the elderly woman's, who could only smile in response before reverting to a debating mood. Erin took solace on the exchange. She knew there was at least one other person in this fancy mansion who was having a bad time tonight.

Erin sighed then went outside of the mansion, towards her husband by the gate. He picked her up a few hours ago at Downtown, saying that they could go home together after once he was done with the Senator's schedule for tonight. She hoped it would be a time for some private talk between them. But as expected, her husband was still standing beside a collection of brown shipping boxes, checking off a list. He shared scant words with the delivery boys, who looked like they were teenagers working the graveyard shift. His attitude at work didn't have an off switch.

"Justin.", she called to him.

"Maybe later, Erin? I'm not yet done with these deliveries."

"Later? You'll just fall to bed when we get home. I can't put this off any longer."

"*sigh* I knew it was a mistake to bring you here."

Justin didn't even look at her in the eye. It was surreal. The warm gaze he had given her earlier tonight seemed like an illusion after all. But Erin knew that he was only stalling for time. He didn't want to hear the truth, even though the writing was already on the wall from the moment Erin showed him that damn envelope…

"I won't go through with the surgery. If the OB-GYN says I can't have a baby… then we should just adopt."

"There's a better clinic in DC.", Justin insisted. "Senator Darcy said she'll pull strings to get you on the waiting list."

"Really? Why? Why are you pushing for this!?"

"You still don't get it? I want our kid to come from _us_!", he turned to her, angrily. He had heard this debate before.

"Would it be so bad if we just adopted?"

"Please, Erin. We'll talk about this back at the house."

"Justin, wait!"

He didn't heed her, and instead walked towards another pile of boxes by the yard and grabbed one to bring inside. The rest were being carted off by the two delivery boys from the white van just several meters from them.

Erin wanted to cry on the spot, but she knew this was the wrong place for it. The last thing she wanted to do was to embarrass her husband in his boss's own home. And true enough, Patricia Darcy was only a few feet behind them, having heard the whole thing. When Erin turned around, the older woman shook her head, perhaps out of sympathy or disappointment, and went back inside the fancy house. At least she had the decency to stay out of a private matter between spouses. If only she could understand. Tonight had just been an incredibly stressful one, and there seemed no reprieve in sight. Erin closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She couldn't wait to get home. She needed to get her affairs in order before she could-

"EARTH'S HOPE ENDURES!"

A shout was heard outside of the gate. Erin turned around, seeing a dark-skinned man lean out of the passenger seat of the white van. His voice was defiant and angry, and his hand was clenched into a fist. The woman didn't register what had just happened, and neither her husband nor the two delivery boys did anything. Then, the white van sped away, driving away from the front gate and into the night. A strange spectacle, for sure; it sounded like a taunt. A warning.

Then, a gasp barely escaped from Erin's lips. She suddenly sensed danger... something in the brown box her husband was holding.

"JUSTIN!"

A heartbeat later, there came a bright flash of light and a thundering roar. The ground quaked, the windows shattered, and a violent gush of air went through Erin's bones and painfully threw her backwards from the foyer.

She had no time to scream.

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **Okay, so this one took a while because I realized Chapter Four could benefit from a few story bits in the original version of Chapter Five in my outline. Eventually this one got a bit too bloated for my tastes so I spent extra time thinning it out. The result is technically two chapters molded into one, as concise and coherent as I could make them to be.

But while I was writing this chapter, Ubisoft announced that they intend for Year 5 to have an overarching plot, story or some-such, involving NIGHTHAVEN. To be honest, their inclusion was a complete surprise for me, especially since I already introduced a PMC organization to my fanfic. There are fan-theories floating online about an Olympics-esque event for Rainbow, and how Kali and Wamai _may not_ exactly be good guys... Yeah, there are a lot of new factors I have to consider for my story, moving forward. :)


	6. Chapter 5 - Red Alert

**.**

* * *

**Chapter Five - "Red Alert"**

* * *

…

…The next moment, there was nothing but the pitch blackness. Bones and the muscles went numb, while the rest of the senses felt dead. It was such an abrupt change – from a heated outpour of emotions, to the shock of fear, to the brief rush of pain and the quick cut to black. Strangely, it was morbidly comforting, to be freed from something so hurtful. For some, words hurt more than bullets and bombs.

'Mistake'. It was one of the last things burned into her memory. 'It was a mistake to bring you here.'

Then for a moment, eyes were washed in a bright, hazy light. It could be a blanket of mist, a gout of flame, or a busted lamp. The rays felt like drops of water, tickling the skin. The white light danced, whirling and spinning, until it was mixed with swashes of blues and reds. Strangely, the lights seemed to sing a tune, evenly rising and falling in octaves. They sounded like horns to bleeding ears, matched with a constant ringing.

The stimuli didn't make any sense, like tasting psychedelics for the first time. A simpler time, in the verdant college grass. Just a boy and girl and their group of friends, wasting the day and dreaming big. It was a fond memory that the mind simply could not let go, no matter how much blood it had shed. The reward was the yawning void: paradise enough from the wounds wracking the body. There was no pain, for better or for worse. The breaths were like weak puffs of air.

_J… Justin…_

She tried to lift her head, but she was too weak to move. It was far easier for her to drift into sleep. Far better to close her eyes, than to see what had become of the scenery. She heard voices, shouting at her, but they did nothing except. She then felt something soft cover her mouth, shiny and cold as well, but it could not entice her lips to move. Belts gripped her arms and legs, but it was a chore to think about them all. Again, there was nothing but the pitch blackness.

Erin could stay there forever.

…

* * *

Alice Springs Correctional Centre, Australia  
Three hours later

HVI Extraction: In Progress

…

And just like that, another damn undercover job. Dominic Brunsmeier scratched the polyester gloves of his guard suit, frowning. The blasted things were not even fresh from the cleaners as he'd asked. But it was a minor gripe compared to the situation he just found himself in. He was asleep when the news hit; Harry himself was caught off-guard and left organizing a hasty response with whoever was available. Luckily for him, and not so much for Dominic, Grim Sky Team were in Australia tonight, running a lead from a list of names they had uncovered in Casablanca not long ago. Plans changed on the fly, and now they were spearheading an exfiltration mission on short notice. Next thing he knew, he was sitting inside the cold shell of a prison van.

"I dunno. See, your papers check out…", Dominic overheard the gate guard. "…but still, I don't like puttin' those two in the open like this. Once I get the nod, just head to the loading gate 'n don't faff about. We clear?"

"Crystal, mate.", Tori Tallyo-Fairous replied with glee. 'Gridlock' had also been roped along for this job on a whim, but she hadn't complained yet. "Ey, I'll put a good word on your boss. Dontcha worry."

"Hmph. Aren't ya special."

The stout gearhead graced this trip with her presence to add some authenticity to the charade; she had some pull with the Federal Police after all. The van she was driving had been on hold for a few minutes now, awaiting clearance from the prison staff. Her conversation with the gate guy was meant to keep heads cool, arouse less suspicion. It was senseless chatter as far as Dominic was concerned, however. He was more worried with the time, the urgency, and the itchy gloves. His comrade, Aria De Luca, was also getting anxious opposite his seat, judging from the restless tapping of her foot. Her guard outfit looked a bit fresher than his.

A whistle blew a few moments later, probably a signal to retract the steel bollards blocking the yard entrance. Soon after, the van's engine roared to life, resuming the Team's little journey into one of Australia's lesser known destinations. Dominic couldn't see much from within the armored vehicle, but peering into one of the view ports gave him a less than thrilling view: empty sands and distant tree canopies, with only one or two lamps lighting the way. They were literally in the middle of nowhere, "woop woop" as the locals said it. Made perfect sense for them to build a maximum-security facility here.

"Are you ready?", Aria muttered in a soft voice. She didn't bother hiding her accent.

"We'll be fine.", he assured her.

"Not if we don't do this by the numbers. I feel there will be trouble afoot."

Today's HVI extraction was quite unusual. The High Value Individuals weren't stuck-up politicians, captured comrades, or luckless civilians. Rather, they were two of the most hated people in Australia at the moment, hated for shaming the country with what they had done. It wasn't a stretch to say that even the inmates here would prefer to slit their throats, right here and now, than to see them carted off somewhere else. And Harry wasn't taking any chances with the prison staff either, so it was another reason he sent Dominic and his teammates to pull the two prisoners out as discreetly as possible. Hence, the uniforms.

"Relax, Aria. This is not my first break-in.", the German boasted while he stretched his gloves.

"Takes one to know one, huh?", she joked.

"Heh. Shut up."

The van stopped a few seconds into the trip, then backed up in reverse presumably towards another gate. The brakes applied, prompting Dominic and his female teammate to swing the doors open and step out. A few paces beyond them was a drab, lifeless concrete structure of metal-barred windows, with about four Australian correctional officers waiting to greet them. These guys donned the same bright blue shirts and dark purple trousers as they did, with the addition of tactical vests and MP5s. Two of the guns were pointed behind a couple of nondescript women in dark overalls. They had white sacks on their heads, and their hands and feet were shackled with large chains.

The two undercover Operators knew the drill. Aria went to the guard holding the clipboard, formally signing off the transfer detail, while Dominic wasted no time to walk behind the prisoners and guide them towards the armored van, parked by the loading gate. He did his best to avoid small talk. No eye contact with the guards, no handshakes either; he'd learned that the best way to blend in with a different culture was to simply keep his damn mouth shut. He glanced at his partner, who was taking her sweet time with the paperwork. The German urged her to hurry with a nudge of his head, but Aria simply frowned back, keeping her cool and blending in with some banter. Her acting was spot on, like she was a natural at the job, fooling even the good guys with her guile and calm.

Barston had chosen his mole quite well. Dominic made a mental note to confront Aria about it, one day.

But for now, Rainbow's internal politics took a back seat. The German pressed on with the mission, planting his gloved hands on the HVIs' backs and nudging them forwards. On the way back to the prison van, he held his arms wide, thereby covering the two prisoners with his body. There could be a rogue pair of crosshairs bearing down on them right at that moment. More reason to board the armored vehicle without a minute to spare. Following Australian regulations, so as to not break his cover, Dominic guided the masked prisoners so that they would be seating opposite of each other. He knocked behind the driver as soon as his comrade hopped on board, finding a place beside one of the women.

"We're in. Get us out of here.", he spoke with a neutral accent, to appease any eavesdropping Aussies.

"Right-o.", Tori acknowledged.

Once more, the journey resumed with the engine returning to life. They drove past the gate guard, past the security checkpoints, and past the prison entrance, as any routine prison transfers would go down. A still silence prevailed inside the vehicle throughout the minutes it took to navigate the prison complex, minutes until the Team knew they were in the clear. It was only later when the driver honked on the steering wheel, signaling her buddies it was safe to open their radios.

"Castle, this is Bandit.", Dominic reverted to his German tone. "HVIs in custody, we are egressing to the airport. ETA 20 minutes, over."

"Copy that.", his earpiece replied with a gruff male voice. "Roads are clear from here on out, brother. The jet should be fueled up in five. Don't be late, out."

The next phase would be a 14-kilometer drive across the lifeless stretch of Stuart Highway. And thus, the hardest part of the mission was done. Dominic breathed a sigh of relief, once again scratching the polyester gloves that were part of his disguise. He should've asked the point of them, as the HVIs didn't seem contagious or delicate, or something. He could not wait to shed his disguise and dump it in a burning pit. He much preferred his black leather jacket and denims in this weather, mission parameters be damned. He would look like a hoodlum once inside the maximum-security facility, but he wouldn't be out of place either.

Aria tipped her chin at him, wordlessly asking if he was fine; she too had a genuine look of relief on her face. Rather than respond in kind, Dominic took out a key from his utility belt and leaned towards the one person they needed to check on first.

*click* *click*

His comrades gave a specific description of this particular lady before the mission: Caucasian, athletic build, black hair worn in a pixie cut; the words were repeated several times like a broken record. The last bit was difficult to determine without removing the sacks on the prisoners' heads, but Dominic already had a good idea who she was. Only one of the two looked like a highly-trained soldier, judging from her relatively-burly frame. Toned biceps and scarred skin could only come from someone of a particular, martial background. Erik likened her to a pretty wallflower, someone who didn't belong in the frontlines. And yet, she went above and beyond her King's calling by actually volunteering for a deep cover operation, blending with the enemy for months…

…

"Ah.", she muttered in relief.

The woman stretched her hands and feet, finally unbound. Then, she took off the sack on her head, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the lights inside the van. 'Black pixie cut' certainly looked the part, looking none the worse for wear, as did the rest of her feminine bits. The pain on her wrists was simply part of the job she signed up for.

"Agent Nøkk.", Dominic called her, then reached into his chest pocket. "Cigarette?"

"No thanks.", she tersely replied.

"I assume you heard what happened?"

"Mmhm. I had a TV in my cell."

So, she knew the score as well. There was no reason why Team Rainbow would pull her out of the can unless it was an urgent situation. Rather than exchange pleasantries with her fellow Operators, "Nøkk" asked for Dominic's key, then used it to open the shackles binding her erstwhile comrade. This particular person donned a slightly different set of overalls; her skin was almost entirely covered, head to toe, with dark fabric. Nøkk took off the sack from her head, and the others in the van instantly caught their breath.

The other woman's face was blistered, strewn with a few milky spots that seemed like ointments. She was a redhead, rather young in all things considered, but her fair skin was peeling off in places. Dominic knew enough science to realize that this girl had been exposed to a harmful substance, or even radiation. Then it dawned on him: _she_ was the reason why he was wearing the damn itchy gloves. Contact with her flesh would be quite unpleasant, and one-way ticket to a containment ward. He wanted to ask Nøkk what happened to this poor girl, but the Dane had already gotten her attention, giving her a cold stare.

"…Sarah? W-What's going on…?", the red-haired prisoner was at a loss of words. 'Sarah' was presumably the alias Nøkk used while she was embedded in Earth's Hope.

Of course, the Danish woman remained quiet. Instinctively, Dominic glanced at her right hand, which was tucked away from the other prisoner's point of view. To his curiosity, she just wrapped part of her chains around her knuckles.

"Playtime's over, Dolores.", she spoke menacingly.

"W-What…?"

It took a few seconds for the woman to put the pieces together. A 'prisoner', relieved off her handcuffs, with two guards figurately joining her shoulder-to-shoulder. Her confusion then turned to surprise.

"…You're… You're with the police…?"

"Interpol. Global Anti-Terror Task Force.", Nøkk coldly replied. As usual, she namedropped a bogus unit to keep her _real_ affiliation a secret.

Dolores looked around in disbelief, the dawning realization that she had just traded one cold fate in prison with another, more terrible one. Dominic could recognize that look anywhere, as prisoners were the only ones who truly understood the meaning of abject hopelessness. And with hopelessness, there also came a grim resignation to one's fate. Her face looked like she was about to cry, until it turned into a sad smile. To be fair, that was all she could ever do, seeing that she was now at the mercy of three elite counter-terrorism operatives. As for the German, he didn't need to do anything except watch.

"I see… hehehehe…", Dolores muttered to herself.

Her blistered skin started to redden even more. Surefire signs of stress. Not that they stopped her from rearing to lunge at the other woman, only to be held back by the chains on her legs and hands.

"…I knew there's something off with you!", she snarled. "You were too prim! Too clean!"

"Spill it.", Nøkk was having none of her lectures.

"Spill what, ya fuckin' filth (cop)?"

Dolores spat at her face. Blood and saliva splotched at the Dane's pale skin, which was more than enough to rile her from her seat. Before Dominic and Aria could stop her, she had already decked the other woman's face with a fistful of chain, enough to draw more blood from her already-red flesh.

"You know what I mean!", Nøkk shouted. "The hijacking, the dirty bomb… You killed innocent people in _my_ home, and for what!?"

"W-Wha? Your home?"

"But then you tried to kill an American Senator too!? Enough games! What the hell is Earth's Hope doing!?"

There was genuine anger in her words, with Nøkk referring to the bombing in Aarhus. The rest of the world tagged it as nothing more than an ecoterrorist attack on a big corporation. Understandably, by virtue of loyalty and heritage, it meant something more for the pixie-haired woman. There was a great rage burning in her eyes. Rage at what befallen her beloved country. And the one responsible for it was right at her midst- at her mercy, no less.

"ANSWER ME! You're taking orders from someone else, aren't you!? Who is it? WHO!?"

"Hey, cool it!", Dominic grasped at her forearm.

She responded by brushing his hand aside, rather forcefully. Restraint was needed more than ever. As emotions started to boil over, the two Operators briefly scuffled with each other, only to be held back by the van's cramped spaces. Aria, much to her dismay, was forced to move and separate them; this was certainly not a good time to let tempers flare. As the rowdy scene unfolded before her, Dolores started to whimper, with fear overtaking her rash-ridden face. Soon, that dread soon gave way to defiance. When the two people in front of her briefly stopped their brawl, she forced a weak smile, all while tears started to form in her eyes. The tone of her voice did not reflect her emotions.

"You… You're too late… Mother Earth will have her revenge.", she rambled. "…The polluters, their damn governments, their fuckin' lapdogs… all of you will BURN! And there ain't a bloody thing you can do to stop it!"

"Enough with the speeches, you pea-brained bitch!", Nøkk yelled back. "Tell me now, or I'll tear off what's left of your face!" This time, she hinted at weakness, hoping that Dolores would see was giving her a chance.

It was all for naught.

*crack*

"Earth's Hope endures!", the girl muttered in defiance.

Dominic felt a gasp escape his mouth, not of his own volition. His reflexes reacted to the sound too slowly. He recognized that crack: a piece of ceramic, a false tooth. And in his line of work, he knew there was only one reason anyone would go for _that_. Before he could rush to her side, Dolores started to convulse violently. Her eyes dilated and blinked as white foam started to dribble from her mouth, coughing and gurgling. Her chained legs banged on the van's metal shell, as the rest of her body started to go into shock.

It was a cyanide pill.

"Oh no… SHIT! Nonononono…!", Nøkk started to panic.

"Ey! What's goin' on back there!?", Tori yelled, finally reacting to the commotion.

The Operators hurried to take the pill off the prisoner's mouth. Spouting curses in his native tongue, Dominic forced her jaw open and reached two fingers into her molars, while Aria held her feet down. But Dolores, choking and gagging, had already sealed her own fate. A few seconds later, her legs stopped moving, as breath ceased from her nostrils. Her body weakened, flailing less, until it went completely still…

…

"…She's dead… She's dead, Nøkk."

*smash!*

"FUCK!", she planted a fist on the van's hull, venting her frustration.

The spectacle was over in a few seconds. Another life lost, senseless and unnecessary.

Dominic caught his breath. Life-and-death adrenaline subsided in his blood, allowing him to think more rationally once again. Part of him believed he could've stopped it. He mentally retraced his steps, thinking about the chances he should've taken to avoid this outcome. Good sense prevailed in the end; there was no way he could've foreseen a suicide attempt on his watch. The woman must had smuggled the pill even before she went to prison, and went great to great lengths to keep it hidden for this occasion. Or worse, it was also possible that someone had given it to her sometime beforehand. Either way, the 'how' and 'when' were moot as of now. Silence prevailed one more time, with all but one operative at a loss for words.

"Bandit, what the flyin' fuck was that!?", Tori yelled behind her again.

"…"

"Ey, did ya hear me!?"

"Nothing to worry yourself about, Grid.", he lied. "Just keep driving."

So much for a simple prison break-in. He looked at his other comrades, both of whom still reeling from what had just transpired. Nøkk, whose rage had finally left her, seemingly had a change of decorum. Formerly agitated, she simply sat beside and cradled Dolores's head. The fleeting anger left her with nothing to say, falling quiet just as fast as for when she sprang to action earlier. Meanwhile, Aria remained stoic on her seat, her eyes remaining blank. There was something different in them this time, like she was trying so hard to hide her facial cues, trying too hard to play tough. Dominic could see through her facade, but now was not the time to call her out on it.

"You okay?"

"Relax. This is not the first suicide I've seen.", the Italian woman smirked.

As if that could even be called a silver lining, Dominic thought to himself, until he recalled his earlier talk with her. The extraction mission didn't go exactly smoothly. An HVI offed herself, meaning one less source of intel to use, and now the German was left with a mess on his hands. He could only wonder if there was something else that could be salvaged from it. That notion, by itself, was a tall order. At least they got one of their alive. Suffice to say, they would all be leaving Australia with a bitter taste in their mouths. Of course, Dominic had been into this hole before.

The polyester gloves started to itch his skin again. This time he scoffed and took them off his hands. There was no longer any point in wearing them.

…

"I suppose there's a good reason for you to break me out, Bandit?", Nøkk suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

"We need you back into the fold, _princess_. I thought that was obvious."

"Could you please stop calling me princ- …ah, forget it.", Nøkk nearly laughed. Briefly, everything went back to normal. Almost casual-like. Dominic was relieved to see her temper had finally cooled.

"Actually we're supposed to head into town, search an Earth's Hope safe house…", he went on. "…This mission was just a side trip."

"If you're talking about the RV park, forget it… Dolores had her friends scrub it clean two days ago."

"Her friends? I thought her crew's been out of action since your chase in the Outback?"

"I meant her _other_ friends.", Nøkk continued, slightly exasperated. "Those working for the one who tipped them off about the uranium…"

She then motioned to Dominic's breast pocket, finally in the mood to puff a smoke or two. Dominic went along and gave her a stick, offering to light it himself. He considered it a peace offering for the scuffle earlier. They had all been caught up in the moment.

"…Aria, what happened to the numbers I gave you guys?"

"_Mi dispiace_ (I'm sorry), but MI5 is still running through those bank accounts. We've been working slower since the Americans pulled support from us."

"*sigh* Of course you'd be."

"Hey, I am sure Director Six will not let your efforts go to waste."

"Hehehe. 'Go to waste'…", she smirked faintly.

Nøkk turned her eyes to the dead woman, Dolores, with poignant thoughts running through her head. Her eyes were sullen. Dominic looked on, thinking that some part of the Dane might have cared for the fanatic, once upon a time. Like the sob-story of a damn fairytale.

"Damn waste… She really thought she was making a difference. Stole a uranium convoy, then had the stuff blow up in her face… All because she thought she was saving the world… Too smart for her own good."

That explained the rad-poisoning.

"Hey. Judge their actions, not their beliefs.", Dominic rebutted. It was time to get things back on track. "Don't forget these damn kids killed a lot of people. Especially yours."

"I thought I got them all figured out…", Nøkk spoke somberly. "…Why did they attack Darcy? She has no corporate ties; she doesn't fit their target profile."

At least that's what the news told. Facts still remained sketchy, but TV reels were vivid. That scene of carnage in an affluent San Francisco neighborhood, mere days after the bombing in Aarhus, had been the impetus for today's extraction mission.

"We're actually hoping you could fill us in, Nøkk.", Aria commented.

"Okay… but there's too much to take in. Especially after what Dolores said."

"Is something wrong?", Dominic asked.

"I… I hope not. Call it a hunch, but…"

The pale-skinned woman paused, then looked to him with an anxious expression. It was the first time he had seen _her_, of all people, bear a sense of worry on her face, her anger notwithstanding.

"…After the attempt on Darcy, and this deal with Moscow and the Americans… it can't be a coincidence."

"…The polluters, their damn governments…", Aria recalled the ominous words spoken by their deceased prisoner.

What she said pointed at an obvious target; it's clear that a bigger picture was unravelling before them. Right then and there, Dominic was convinced by Nøkk's suspicions. There was no way a group of sociopathic nature-lovers would be so committed to attacking everyone, unless they had a certain goal in mind. There was no way they would be convinced to carry out such heinous deeds, if they weren't compensated handsomely for it. It was either the money or the prestige that enticed them, but regardless, Earth's Hope no longer followed their own rules. They were being used. And behind the ramblings of a dead ecoterrorist, there laid a truth that Team Rainbow should look into.

_I'm getting too old for this._

The more Dominic continued his chain of thought, the more he realized the futility of it all. He didn't sign up to be a thinker; that crap was for Mark, Meghan, and the other geniuses. Rather indulge his colleagues with a smart answer, he simply reached into his chest pocket again and picked up a cigarette for his own. He rested it between his fingers, then flicked a lighter with his other hand. He ignored the odd looks that his colleagues gave him, and instead focused on the flavor. After what happened today, he could use a moment of respite, no matter how fleeting it would be…

"Castle.", he called into the radio. "We have a problem."

First thing's first, the bad news. He and his friends had a dead body to contend with, and Dominic was seated a few feet away from it. How foolish of him, thinking that nothing in this world could surprise him anymore. He hoped that this trip to Australia, this whole charade, had not been a total waste.

…

* * *

Situation Room, Hereford Base, England  
At the same time

Code Red; four hours after Darcy's attempted assassination

…

Dr. Harishva "Harry" Pandey was growing anxious, despite what his calm exterior would suggest. America raised the alarm after what happened in San Francisco; the pretense of peace was about to unravel. In front of him was a large, 55-inch LCD screen: the biggest out of all the monitors in a room full of computer equipment.

_"Alright. On me."_

The speakers rang with the voice of an American male with a gruff Southern accent, whom everyone present instantly recognized. Today, there was a developing situation thousands of miles away from England. The image projected in the LCD was that of a camera-POV from a Rainbow Operator's HUD: that of a cramped, dimly-lit maintenance duct surrounded by hissing gas pipes. The guy wearing the camera was following another person ahead of him: an elderly Caucasian in a sleek suit with greying blonde hair. They had their pistols drawn, as part of the on-going security lockdown which only started half an hour ago. The two men were just about to conclude their sweep.

The lower right portion of the LCD screen provided a few critical details in white text:

_…_

_Specialist McKinley, C.  
Kafe Dostoyevsky, Tverskaya St., MSK, RUS / 06:20:33 UTC+3_

_…_

Harry gritted his teeth behind closed lips. There was an American delegation in Moscow today, part of the State Department's and Senate's efforts to defuse growing tensions between the Kremlin and the White House. Tensions born from the fearmongering of hardliners who wanted their country to become a slave to strength and prestige. Among them was one Senator Patricia Darcy, whose San Francisco residence was just bombed a few hours ago by a resurgent Earth's Hope sleeper cell. Rumors immediately spread that the attack was backed by the Russian government, a harsh response to her venomous slander to the Kremlin. In the midst of a new terrorist campaign, an attempted assassination on home soil, and heightened tensions between two powers… the thought process wasn't all that uplifting.

At the very least Darcy was alive and unhurt.

"Come on, come on…", Harry repeated under his breath.

Things were bad enough as they currently stood, then came an eyewitness testimony of a traumatized little girl, Agnes, whom Rainbow rescued not too long ago. The men that massacred her group in Casablanca had loose lips- they blurted at something big about to go down in Moscow soon, seemingly corroborating Harry's worst fears. Team Rainbow had a few Operators deployed there today, acting as glorified bodyguards to their former Director, Aurelia Arnot, who was present in the American delegation. She was being looked after by former Secret Service agent Collinn "Warden" McKinley, the owner of the video feed being played at the LCD. But right now, he had left her side for something far more important. And far more dangerous.

Harry continued to watch the screen, as Collinn and his elderly partner rounded to a dark corner in the maintenance duct, stopping only a few feet from a looked door. They huddled behind on opposite edges, then exchanged nods. In the next moment, and with his P10C at the ready, the Rainbow Operator reared back and kicked the door down with ruthless force, stumbling across yet another dark room with faint lights. This time around, they had more than hissing pipes to contend with, as the room was partially blanketed with a thin haze, presumably steam.

_"Clear right."_

_"Clear left…"_, Collinn reported. He then gave his eyewear a solid thwack, creating some static on the monitor in Hereford. "…_Ah, shit. Goddamn glasses are acting up again."_

A product of Rainbow's dedicated R&D team, his Smart Glasses gave him better perception in the semi-permissible mist. When he raised his fancy watch, the LCD's monitor switched to a blue-filter overlay, indicating that Collinn had just activated his gadget on. He and his partner would need it, as they went to investigae the Kafe's maintenance network for anything amiss. A dirty bomb, a poison gas canister, and EMP device… anything that a bunch of terrorist psychopaths could use to send another message to the White House today. Everyone in the Situation Room held their breath.

…

_"Wait. I got somethin' here…"_

Collinn knelt and picked up something peculiar on the ground. From his perspective, the object looked like a screen-mesh attached to a canister of some sort. A chemical bomb. Briefly, the hairs behind Harry's neck rose up.

_"…You seein' this, Pete?"_

Collinn then handed it to his partner. The older gentleman, who looked like in his fifties, inspected the weird looking contraption with stern eyes. A few seconds later, his expression turned more neutral…

…

"_It's a busted air filter_.", the man spoke.

Harry smiled and closed his eyes, as though a great weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. His colleagues shared the sentiment, expressing their relief in different forms. But the mission was not yet over.

_"Bravo-Two to Six-Actual, false alarm."_, Collinn reported. _"Say again: False alarm. No suspicious devices detected…"_

Thus, concluded the last sitrep from Kafe Dostoyevsky. All other security personnel present at the building, who were all members of the 'Puissance Group' PMC, had been reporting no positive threats these past few minutes. Collin's report was the last thing needed before the all clear could be given. Providence or good karma, everything turned out great in the end. The evacuation could therefore proceed without any trouble.

_"…we're headed back to the buffet hall. We'll prep StateDep for exfil in ten."_

'Evacuation'. It didn't matter if there was an imminent threat or not; the White House wanted all of its people out of Moscow today. The bombing in San Francisco was the last straw.

"Understood.", Harry spike into the microphone on his lapel. "Bravo-One, do you confirm?"

'Bravo-One' was the brevity code for SAS veteran Mike "Thatcher" Baker, who also graced the delegation with two more Operators. They all had sizable experience in VIP protection, which made them excellent choices as undercover bodyguards to shadow Aurelia. All this effort as courtesy to the former Rainbow Six. Of course, nobody in the Kafe knew about this arrangement. If the Americans had it their way, Aurelia would be hounded by a string of spies and goons hidden in plain sight; the trip to Moscow could be used as a cover for dastardly espionage. The world didn't need another reason to push itself to the edge of war.

_"One copies. Three and Four are packin' up.",_ Baker responded in his English drawl. _"We'll rendezvous at the garage in ten minutes; next radio call at the L-Zed, over."_

"A-firm. Excellent work, all of you."

Another mission accomplished. Another job well done.

Harry quickly reminded himself that the victory was a bit bittersweet. Even with all the security measures present at the delegation, there was nothing that could change the situation in the White House. The attack on Senator Darcy had succeeded in spooking them off of _any_ _and all_ diplomatic channels. Not even Rainbow's help could dissuade them.

The good Doctor wanted to gripe right where he stood, let his thoughts on the matter made clear. But that would play into the wishes of another group of people, whose faces were flashed onto a different set monitors inside the Situation Room. These bore the faces of two elderly gents wearing suits, who had been watching the action unfold in the LCD screen from their own offices this whole time. When Harry turned his attention to them, he quickly locked his bespectacled eyes to the Caucasian man with the receding hairline, bearing a wrinkly face and a grim disposition to match his eyeglasses. He was in charge of America's Department of Homeland Security, and a bitter acquaintance of Aurelia's.

"Secretary Treadway.", Harry addressed him. "I hope you're satisfied with Rainbow's contribution?"

"Much as I appreciate keeping us in the loop, Director Pandey, this was a waste of my time.", he replied. The old man's unimpressed expression did not change at all.

Aurelia _did_ warn Harry that this guy was a venomous geezer. Luckily for him, the new Director of Team Rainbow had an ally of sorts in the form of Under-Secretary-General Barston, the other person shown in the monitors. He had also observed the Moscow Operation through his office in New York. Barston was in his forties, had the temperament and features to match. He could never stand anyone badmouthing his people, regardless of his own misgivings for them…

"I guaranteed cooperation, not entertainment, Secretary Treadway-"

"Sorry Barston, but I wasn't talking to you. Your people meddled in a matter of National Security."

"E-Excuse me?"

"Where did you get your intel on this imminent attack, huh? And since when did Team Rainbow have the goddamn authority to override our security protocols?"

…Not that it did any good in the end. Harry was offended by the old man's remark, but he hid his reaction with clenched fists. He could not believe that clashing personalities and internal politics would still persist, even though there was a possible terrorist threat just a few minutes ago. Any sane man would agree he had no choice but to order his Operators to take drastic measures. He would prefer if the pedantic bastard appreciated the results of his decision.

"_We_ guaranteed cooperation, sir.", he replied diplomatically. "And _we_ would appreciate it if the White House did the same for us."

"The same? We've got more boots on the ground hunting these terrorists. More troops than the whole of Iraq and Afghanistan combined, just to keep the world safe... Something _your_ people can't seem to do right."

"…"

"And thanks to your little sideshow, there's no doubt in my mind we have a red alert. I'll recommend to the White House that we activate _all_ of our assets. From here on out, Rainbow will stand down."

"What? You don't have the power to do that!", Barston protested.

"Our lobbyists in the Security Council say otherwise. This isn't a threat, Under-Secretary-General, it's advance notice."

Harry could feel his colleagues groan behind him, mirroring his own feelings. He knew this day would come; he tried to keep this situation at bay as long as possible, but Treadway's words only proved that even the UN had its hands tied on the matter. As Harry had feared, the "Saint-Claire" Enhanced Domestic Defense Law gave the White House the legal leeway to flex its brutish muscles once again. Earth's Hope, that group of violent environmentalists, and all of their friends would no doubt feel the full brunt of America's wrath, if they hadn't already. Harry could go against Treadway's wishes and have his Operators do what they do best, but that would risk inciting a private, _political_ war with Rainbow's biggest critics.

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Grace "Dokkaebi" Nam flip a bird to Secretary Treadway's face; she never had any patience for bigwigs of all stripes. Meghan "Valkyrie" Castellano, who was standing beside her, chided her with a bump on the shoulder. And accompanying the two women was Mark "Mute" Chandar, who was as stoic and silent as ever. Neither Treadway nor Barston saw their antics, thanks to Grace's image distortion program messing up the two gentlemen's monitors. At least, that's what Harry expected from her today.

"*sigh* Before you hamstring us at the UN…", he continued. "…I hope you at least tell the President that the Moscow delegation has never been in any danger, as Homeland Security _foolishly_ suggested."

"Watch your tone, boy.", Treadway frowned.

"Do we have a guarantee that the Pentagon will not activate Zero Protocol? There's no proof that Senator Darcy was 'targeted by Russia'."

"Yes, we don't need someone else poking at the hornet's nest, do we?", Barston commented.

Treadway didn't flinch in his monitor. He didn't seem to care about anything except to flex his political muscles. Of course, that could also be the whole point of him agreeing to this video call in the first place: to put everyone in their place even in the face of an ongoing terrorist campaign. But Harry would not give any ground either. He crossed his arms and glared at Treadway just as long as he did to him. He knew he was staring not just at a man who hated the Rainbow Program with every fiber of his being, but also at the incarnation of the White House's current sentiment. And there was only one reason for this new-found animosity: Zero Protocol.

Someone, somewhere in the world, would want nothing more than to restore their country to greatness, even if it meant thrusting the entire planet in a new global war.

"Rest assured, wars _normally_ do not start overnight, gentlemen.", the old man smirked.

"…"

"But, if you really want our gratitude, then tell me where you got your intel about Kafe Dostoyevsky. My people didn't have anything."

That caught Harry's attention. It was a specific query from the stubborn old man, like it was something only a handful of people in the world would logically ask. Of course, the answer to that question was the little girl rescued from Casablanca, Agnes Kipper. She had just been flown back to the States yesterday, presumably to her kin. Though she's well beyond Team Rainbow's immediate reach, she was still a potential asset whose existence should be kept hidden.

"We… cannot do that, I'm sorry.", Harry politely refused to indulge him.

"Then we have nothing more to discuss. Excuse me."

Treadway's monitor immediately went blank. At this point that there should be sighs of relief all around, but there was one more man that needed appeasing. Harry didn't even look at his monitor when he opened his mouth, about to make his misgivings known.

"I want a report on my desk tomorrow.", Barston ordered. "This is one big fucking mess you've almost put me into."

"I think it turned out rather well-"

"Really? Treadway is about to undermine us! And can you explain what happened in Alice Springs? I just got word that a terrorist killed herself with a suicide pill. While in your custody."

Harry didn't flinch, and instead fixed his tie and cleared his throat. Yes, he had heard the news: Miles Campbell reported to him half an hour ago. But little did Barston know that his tirade just confirmed one of Harry's lingering suspicions over the past few months – that the UN had placed a mole inside Team Rainbow, to serve as their eyes and ears. A little check and balance wouldn't hurt, surely, but the espionage was a tad unnecessary.

"I can't really comment on an operation that may or may not have happened, sir."

"Stop being a smartass, Harry! I want a report on my desk. Tomorrow. Are we clear?"

"Crystal.", he smiled.

And with that, Barston's screen also went blank; his last image was that of a man who was about to have a very busy week ahead. Harry felt the same could be said to him, so he couldn't help but snicker to himself. But revenge was achieved in some way: his colleagues had done one too many rude gestures while the gents were speaking. In particular, one skunk-striped Korean, who was also responsible for setting up the monitors as they were. He brought her and her colleagues here as witnesses to the dialogue between the three of them.

"Grace, for your sakes I hope your image distortion program worked.", he joked, referring to the device that kept Treadway and Barston from seeing her middle finger.

"Eh? Out of everyone here, you choose to doubt _me_, Six?"

"Hah! Of course not. It's an interesting concept: hide from security cameras _and_ muffle body movement… Think you and Mira can cook up a portable prototype? Something for our dear friend Nøkk."

"You want the scary princess to be even creepier? It's your funeral."

Harry snickered again, before reminding himself of the business at hand.

"Speaking of our dear friend… How goes the job in Australia, Markie?"

"Grim Sky retrieved Agent Nøkk, sir.", the young SAS engineer reported succinctly. "Their plane's been airborne for the last half hour. Should be back at dawn or tomorrow afternoon."

"Good, good. And the bank accounts?"

He directed that question to Meghan, who had been liaising with the British Secret Service for the past few days because of it. Her hands were clasped behind her back, standing at attention like the good intelligence officer that she was.

"Director Sweeney said MI5 has nothing substantial. As for the American accounts… the Treasury Department is cock-blocking us. Looks like someone else is looking into the numbers."

"Huh. Did they say who?"

"Prestige National Bank. Part of an internal affairs investigation, or some crap like that…"

The name rang a bell: it was one of the banks that invested in Holdstadt AG, the construction company that lost a fortune after the bombing in Demark, courtesy of Earth's Hope. Prestige National was also the bank that the White Masks robbed in Los Angeles, more than a year ago. It was strange how the same institution had been a victim of two separate terrorist campaigns. Probably providence or bad karma.

"…What are your orders, Harry?", Meghan respectfully asked.

He took a deep breath. There was no point putting it off any further.

"Sound a Reveille, as you Yanks call it… A general meeting in two days, here at Hereford. I want everyone present - that means Grim Sky, our new prospects, as well as Amaru and Goyo."

"Those two? They're not yet done with their field trip in Bolivia.", Mark rebutted.

Harry then turned to his left. Inside the Situation Room was a large pinboard, hung onto the far wall. It detailed the trail of rampage wrought by Earth's Hope across the world. The board held a large map of the planet, plastered with different pictures, photographs, and news snippets of every atrocity committed by the ecoterrorists, as well as every response made by all governments at large. And in a small grid in South America, Amaru and Goyo were running their own lead on a small group of paramilitaries allegedly working with the terrorists. There were also several groupings circled in the map, detailing significant events of the past few weeks - points of interests as far as Team Rainbow was concerned.

"I'm afraid there'll be more of that to come, mate…", Harry spoke, hiding his dejection. "…Go on, get sorted. I'll arrange everyone's flights."

"Roger."

"Got it, Harry."

The three Operators turned around and walked out. Closing the door behind them, Harry took a few seconds to compose himself. He fixed his suit while his brain processed every information he could grasp on. The attack on Darcy had been an unpleasant surprise for everyone; it would have repercussions to Team Rainbow's plans. The exhausted Director looked for a spare tea kettle in one of the nearby cupboards, something to help put his mind at ease.

Only then, did he breathed a sigh of relief, long overdue.

…

He sat on a creeky office chair, behind a desk in the Situation Room. Collecting himself, he took a sip from a cup of cider. The desk in front of him had several folders strewn about; Harry had brought a few things from his office in case Treadway asked a difficult question. Not that the timeliness mattered in the end, since the old man had basically demanded Team Rainbow to hand over the bulk of their job to him, or else. The reasonable response was to appeal to Aurelia, their one last true connection in the American government, and see if her clout could give them some wiggle room. Considering what happened in Moscow just now, however, it was safe to say that even she would be powerless whenever 'National Security' was at stake.

But 'Rainbow Six' had enough problems of his own. It's bad enough that not all of his Operators could get along well, it's worse that their own governments turned out more difficult to work with. Not long ago, he talked to Grace about validating herself to the Team, as if her mindset never melded with the rest of her comrades'. Harry disagreed. He said to her that she was precise when others were brutish; a scalpel like her should work together with a hammer, rather than set out on her own. Differences complementing each other: _that_ was the message he wanted to get across. Sadly, it seemed to only work on a smaller scale; differences would _always_ be irreconciliable to the world at large.

And now, backroom politics had joined the terrible mix. Displeased with today's revelations, Harry pulled out his voice recorder and placed it near his mouth. He would need something for future reference.

"…Check one, two… File number: zero-one-dash-two-zero-one-six, third recording…"

He also needed to make an official account of everything that had happened so far.

"…The Kafe Situation has been resolved, and we have retrieved one of our assets from Australian custody. I sincerely hope Agent Nøkk had learned something more from her cellmate, because I feel the weight of geopolitics starting to bear down on us. So far, our efforts did little to free Rainbow from this quagmire we unwittingly tripped into…"

The world was about to enter a tumultuous stage, yet the American and Russian government still continued their political jousting. However, since the Saint Claire Law was enforced, the Yanks had become a lot more ruthless and aggressive; their impending global crackdown of Earth's Hope could prove it a dozen times over. It was though as if the Law was just the excuse they needed to cut loose. Soon, the ecoterrorists would be out of the picture for good, and it's easy to guess where the crosshairs would be placed on next. The only hope for the world was for Uncle Sam to restrain himself from pulling the proverbial trigger.

That, and keep someone in the chain of command from pushing the 'big red button' that Harry feared the most.

"…Our intelligence operations have gained us useful insights on Earth's Hope, but determining their intentions and activities had become a lot harder than I expected. While we cut through the red tape and call-in favours, Earth's Hope was unrelenting in their campaign…"

Harry stood up from his desk, and looked at the pinboard again.

"…Let's see: uranium theft in Kazakhstan, foiled by our Russian friends… Then another, more successful, attempt in Australia… which led to the bombing at Holdstadt AG's Spire project, in Aarhus …And the attack on Senator Patricia Darcy, in San Francisco, allegedly backed by Russia…"

Three continents in less than a month. To the untrained mind these would seem like random attacks, but Harry and his people knew better. The uranium thefts and the dirty bombing were at best a feint, a decoy to distract the world from something far more nefarious. Earth's Hope had been busy; too busy, in fact, for a mere social network of 'dedicated' environmental activists. Nobody in their right mind would go against both America and Russia, but these psychopaths did. Without a doubt, there was a hidden hand at work behind their actions as they had been operating way beyond their modus operandi. There was someone who could stand to benefit from all this bubbling chaos.

The theft in Kazakhstan had been thwarted by the Russians; obviously they didn't want their source of nuclear material to fall into the wrong hands. Australia, on the other hand, had been supplying the West with uranium for years. Building a radioactive IED using Western uranium seemed like a desperate gambit for a trump card – even Team Rainbow would balk at the prospect of retrieving nuclear weapons from terrorists. Instead, Earth's Hope wasted all of their effort on a misguided ploy to put Holdstadt AG out of business. Unless, that _was_ part of their plan all along. One gander at financial records showed that Ithaca, an American construction firm, had aggressively gobbled up contracts in Europe after Holdstadt filed for bankruptcy. A hostile takeover. It explained the 'corporate sabotage' angle about the attack in Aarhus, but whether or not Holdstadt deserved it as penance for their past crimes was irrelevant.

"…To do something like this would demand an impressive logistics network. Something like what the White Masks had… Perhaps they're an inspiration? Or maybe… some of them have returned, lent their skills to Earth's Hope? Ethan believes as much. But, if that's the case…"

For that, only one question was important.

"…Why? Why are they coming back _now_?"

The world needed an obvious culprit and Earth's Hope practically volunteered. Could it be that Ithaca hired them Hope to do its bidding in secret? It was a plausible, theory, yet tangential at best. The terrorists' sudden boldness reeked of espionage, something that a certain type of person could pull off, after years of painstaking preparation.

At any rate, at least Team Rainbow had a name: Orson Rose. A mercenary who held a lot of connections to Earth's Hope and other people of ill-repute. His name was found in the same seedy hive that Agnes was rescued from. Coincidence? When Harry told Aurelia about all this, she volunteered to look into it. She should have something soon. And if not, then perhaps their little angel, Agnes, could be of further assistance.

"In any event, perhaps it's time we adopt a different approach. Rather than dig for the truth, perhaps we should go straight to the horse's mouth. Specifically…"

Harry quickly went over to his desk and scoured the documents stacked on it. There was only one person who fit the description. His gut told him that the rise of Earth's Hope from obscurity was pre-ordained. Kazakhstan, Australia, Denmark… the attacks on these countries could simply be the second phase of what was started in New York, more than a year ago. Something that the White Masks would gladly see come to fruition. One person could hold all the answers.

After rifling through his things, Harry finally found a cream-colored folder, marked with the CIA's emblem. It had the word 'Disavowed' stamped on its face, barely hiding the name of the person in question.

"…an old enemy."

According to Aurelia, the traitorous CIA agent was sent to a 'black site' in Iowa. Since then, nobody knew of her fate. But perhaps Ethan could know where and how to look for her. Perhaps the man had been right all along: the bombings, the blowback, the paper trails… they didn't feel like random incidents. The events in Moscow and Alice Springs, no matter how minor, proved that there was _indeed_ something terrible looming over the horizon. And the only people who could do anything about it had their hands tied.

As he was musing his thoughts, Harry noticed something fall out from one of his folders. It was an invoice for a plane ticket to Greece.

"*sigh* Until then, the Program's fate hangs in the air.", he spoke into the voice recorder. "I fear that Rainbow will be sidelined now that counter-terrorism is becoming a political soiree…"

There was a mix of emotions in his face; luckily none of his colleagues were in the Situation Room to witness them. He had big plans for Rainbow, that much was certain. 'The Program'. He rebuilt Team Rainbow together with Aurelia, hoping it would be a bastion of unity and fraternity that the world could be proud of. A beacon of hope, a bulwark of courage and strength. The world needed one, now more than ever, in the midst of true evil. Alas, plans had to be postponed.

Anger and frustration started to build inside. There was a time when every nation in the world could easily put aside their differences and work together for a common cause. Even if the end-result was them squabbling over each other, at least they could be roped into working for a single goal for the benefit of many, and be damn good about it. Those days were now a thing of the past, sadly. Given the prospect of another global conflict and a campaign of terror to drag civilization to its knees, governments now would rather sit on their hands, mind their own business. Far too easy to pursue their own agendas than to make sacrifices. 'The Program' could've been a chance to show them this should not be the case. It could come again, if a certain intervention or two would come with swift wings.

But no matter. If the world couldn't work together, they should rue the day when the world would fall apart. Something had to be done. Fast.

"…End recording."

*click*

He tucked the small device into his pocket, feeling a bit down. Convinced that his options would be limited from here on out, Harry brought out a burner phone from his belongings. But Treadway and Barston had forced his hand, and the only decent choice left was to be… unconventional. Something no government could meddle with.

*ring ring*

…

"Yes?", a woman quickly responded.

Harry smiled to himself. The lady on the phone seemed to be in a good mood today. It was still early in the morning from that fancy oil rig of hers at least, so the pleasant voice was already an achievement on her part. The call was off to a good start.

"Ms. Shah.", Harry spoke into the phone.

"Mr. Pandey. Here to talk about my services again, hmm?"

"I… Yes. I am reconsidering our partnership with NIGHTHAVEN. I admit I had been too brash on our last meeting at-"

"Tsk, tsk. Afraid that ship has sailed long ago. Flattery won't get you far at this point."

He knew she would say that. In response, he decided to swallow his pride. It was time to bite the bullet.

"*sigh* If that's the case, then let's talk about money."

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: HAPPY NEW YEAR! **Yes, I know there are a lot of infodumps in this chapter, but please bear with me. I did this so you could keep in mind all the key players in the plot from here on out. If anything else, I hope it's made perfectly clear that Dolores was the female terrorist that Ethan encountered in Chapter 1; I didn't give her a name there because she was a one-off character to begin with. Also, just so we're on the same page, Treadway is indeed a major antagonist; that's a spoiler from the previous chapter and also from Freedom Day (which I assume y'all have read and finished by now *nudge nudge*).

I'll be doing segments with the Ember Rise and Shifting Tides characters as well, but most likely not on the next few chapters as I have something planned for these guys. I also have an idea how 'The Program' and NIGHTHAVEN can play a role in my story, though I am hoping Ubisoft's upcoming narrative for Siege won't be _too_ far from what I have in mind.


	7. Chapter 6 - What Good Men Do

**.**

* * *

**Chapter Six - "What Good Men Do"**

* * *

Location: Unknown  
The following day

…

"It's not always about the money, mate.", Orson Rose spoke to his comrade.

"*scoffs*"

"'We've got to share our God-given gifts to the rest of the world', as me old chaplain used to say. That's what good men do."

"You? Taking advice from a priest?"

The black-skinned Brit laughed and lit up another Camel between his lips: a gift from the old man.

"Ehh, the wanker turned out a pedophile, but he had a point. What you and I have in common, Caleb, is we're _good_ at what we do. That's why we're 'ere…"

The two men were taking a smoke break, sharing a pack between them. There was a black Civic parked on the dirt and the woods screening them from behind. Very little to do in this isolated mountainside, except to wait for the schedule to catch up and talk about inane subjects. 'Motivation' was up on the list. Personal history was taboo, but it was bound to come up sooner rather than later.

"…So, you won't give me a hint 'bout that scar?", Orson asked him, after a good puff from his cig.

Naturally, the question tugged at a nerve. There was a bullet wound in Caleb's chest, barely peeking from his collared grey shirt. The bald man grimaced in his mind, as the memory from that night replayed behind his eyes. The wound was courtesy of one Emmanuelle Pichon: a girl he was sent to kill, only to have her drop him with a .357 caliber she had somehow smuggled into her hospital bed. He screwed up big time back then, being duped into infiltrating a military hospital and almost got killed. Though in hindsight, he could not have known the deception behind it, that his erstwhile comrade Emily Jacobsen had actually sent him there to fail – a deluded attempt to honor her father. Ending that traitorous redhead's life had been an immensely satisfying and cathartic experience. Still, she was only one name scratched off Caleb's mental list. One among a few. Emmanuelle Pichon, Ethan Mallory, Aurelia Arnot…

"No."

"Oh, come on.", Orson sighed. "If I'm gonna paint a target on me arse, I wanna know who's pullin' the trigger."

Caleb said nothing, and instead flicked his cigarette to the ground, putting it out with the heel of his boot. Fresh, fragrant menthol passed through his nostrils, but the magic didn't register to him. He was more concerned about current events, playing over and over in his head.

"Superheroes.", he relented and briefly played along. "If you've seen the guys on their payroll, you'll think they're the Justice League or some shit."

"What, so they're like those cunts from Sandhurst?"

"More like overpaid busybodies who think they can 'keep the peace' forever. Hmph. Might as well say they found the cure to poverty."

His partner gave him a stern look, annoyed at the lack of a straight answer. Little did he know that the feeling of contempt was mutual. While Caleb certainly had some beef with Orson's prodding, the damn Brit had been professional for the most part - credit where credit was due. Unlike his predecessor, Adam Kipper, Orson Rose didn't weasel himself out of a risky mission, nor did he have the gall to demand more money from a job he willfully signed up for. Unlike Adam, this guy knew the score. He agreed to the deal, and followed the contract's terms to the letter, like he was honor bound to do so. Even if part of that meant making himself as bait. The honesty and professionalism were truly a rarity in the sleazy underbellies of wherever the fuck he was dredged out from. Between his military skills and PMC contacts, Team Rainbow would never know what hit them until it was too late.

That didn't really matter much to Caleb, though, as he hoped to square off against them soon.

He looked at his watch. There were only a few minutes left until the meeting's appointed schedule. If the last one had been any indication, then today's little gathering in the woods would be running late again. Twenty, thirty minutes tops. Had bureaucratic America finally caught up with the old man? Was the masquerade too difficult to uphold this time around? But before Caleb could voice out frustration, he heard an engine's rumbling in the distance, some two or three hundred yards away. It grew louder and louder, coming up on the road where the duo stood by. Both men looked at their right, eyes peeled on the crest of a small hill where the asphalt led. Then after a few minutes, the silhouette of a grey 4WD Wrangler appeared. Government-issue, judging by its plates and clean chrome sheen. Orson smiled to himself, presumably at the flashy entrance. Caleb, on the other hand, maintained a neutral expression as the vehicle pulled up just a few feet ahead of them.

_No escorts huh? You're getting ballsy, old man._

The brakes squeaked, the rear door then opened in one smooth swing, and two polished, black shoes stepped out, adjoining a pair of freshly-laundered slacks. The brown coat and white shirt were just as fresh, if a bit too old-fashioned. And on top of them, the wrinkly face of a mastermind, bespectacled, bare-headed, and full of greys. The dour visage had not changed one damn bit.

"Caleb, Orson.", he called to them.

"Bossman.", Caleb greeted back. "You got here just in time, for a change. Finally got rid of that 'compartmentalization' crap?"

Robert Jonah Treadway, the Homeland Secretary himself, returned the courtesy with a rare smirk.

"Ah, you're in a good mood today, son. I should mark this on my calendar."

Both men chuckled, though it was cut short.

"Let's cut to the chase.", Treadway continued. "I've a meeting with the FBI in two hours and I don't wanna keep 'em waiting."

His two operatives nodded in agreement. Nearly every law enforcement agency in California was dedicated into investigating the attempt on Senator Darcy's life last night. Three dead, one wounded - two of the deaths were those hapless teens that Orson duped into carrying the bomb, much like in Aarhus. As usual, the media ate the story up, but ultimately the attack was nothing more than a feint. It had served its purpose, kept America on its toes, but it would've been for naught if the other cells had failed in their tasks.

"What's the lowdown, guv?", Orson asked in a cavalier tone.

"The buyout's done. Moscow is safe for now, so we can push ahead with transferring the uranium. The Bratva will help the construction crews once the cheque clears…"

And just like that, the news took a whole load off Caleb's shoulders; another box was checked off in everyone's mental lists. At last, Holdstadt AG was finally out of the picture. Access to the European construction market was all but assured, and with it, the means to finally enact the rest of Phase Six without trouble. And their little investment in Australia had paid off, despite the setbacks they encountered with the local authorities. So much could still happen in the backdrop and the world would be none the wiser, as usual.

"…FBI have also moved the Senator to a secure location, so nobody's gonna touch her from here on out."

"Things are pretty swell so far, yeah?"

"Not quite, Mr. Rose. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked for a meeting out here. I just learned Team Rainbow placed a few of their people in the Moscow delegation."

Just like that, the faint smile on Orson's face vanished, replaced by an sudden look of surprise. Caleb felt the same, but he hid his shock behind a stoic face. Team Rainbow. The biggest thorn in their necks had made their presence known again.

"But…", Caleb found the courage to speak. "…You just said Moscow's secured?"

"I did. They pulled out yesterday when I raised a stink about it. Still, they're getting better with the sleuthing. We have to keep things on a tighter loop, from here on."

The two operatives bobbed their heads in agreement. One of them quickly created a mental checklist, to see if there were any loose ends they needed to tie up as soon as possible, now that Rainbow was their heels again. If anything, it was Orson's friends that needed to be worried about, as they knew a bit about the plan from the start. Expending all that was left of Earth's Hope was a good first step, but the close call in Moscow was still an unprecedented development.

"Right. Is that the only problem we have then?", Caleb asked.

"No, we have a couple more…"

At this time, two more men in suits also stepped out of the Jeep. They had earpieces on their person and they were packing some heat in between their coats. The getup screamed Secret Service, but these guys were no agents Caleb was certain. He had seen their mugs before. Last year, back from when he was hitching a ride on a prison bus, all shackled and wounded thanks to that French bitch. Back from when he thought he had reached the end of his rope, being captured by Team Rainbow and transferred to the CIA's custody like some mad dog to be put down. These two men were with the entourage who freed him that day; them and a bunch of grim-looking bastards, just as silent and professional as the Bossman wanted them to be.

And today, just like back then, these 'White Masks' looked nondescript. Their fancy namesake was no longer needed, at least for the time being.

"…First: our friends in Casablanca…", Treadway began as he was handed a folder by one of his guards. The folder was marked with the CIA's emblem. "…It appears they have left behind another liability, thanks to the GIGR raid."

"You have something specific?", Caleb asked again.

"No. Some_one_…"

Treadway produced a picture from the folder and held it out. A little girl, black hair, tanned skin, certainly not older than ten. The photo looked like it came from a yearbook, but such little detail was irrelevant to the old man. Judging from his expression, the girl was someone he was familiar with. And after a closer look, Caleb had the same idea: she was Agnes Kipper. A team was sent to capture her and her mother during Freedom Day, as leverage for Adam Kipper to force him in line. His death meant that his wife and daughter were no longer relevant – but having no goddamn courage to kill a defenseless family, the Bossman figured to sell them off to trafficking ring in Morocco instead. The mother died sometime in the interim, but as for the girl…

"…She didn't pop up in the autopsy reports.", Treadway continued. "It's likely she escaped during the raid."

"Maybe the GIGR rescued her."

"If they did, my contacts in the Moroccan government couldn't confirm it. The kid will probably be harmless to us, but I still want you boys to keep your eyes peeled."

"Will do."

The old man paused, seeing the pack of Camels in Orson's breastpocket. He nodded to the Brit, who then took it out and handed him a stick without question. Caleb provided the light. Treadway puffed, enjoying the flavor of his favorite. The cigarette helped manage his mood.

"As for the paper trail, the smugglers didn't leave much. Most of 'em were invoices with Orson's alias written-"

"Hah! Talk about paintin' a target on my sorry arse!", the Brit suddenly chortled.

"Let me finish. Those documents have the bank accounts your 'comrades' used. I anticipated Interpol to get a whiff of it, but I was wrong…"

Treadway pulled out a different set of papers from the folder. This time, they weren't marked with a familiar emblem. The next names he spouted was something the two subordinates didn't expect to hear.

"…The Treasury Department also got wind of the accounts. This came in from FinCEN last night. Our second problem."

FinCEN. The Financial Crimes Enforcement Network; no wonder the papers' markings weren't familiar. Caleb took a gander at one of the sheets. He was speechless: it was full of tabs, tables and numbers that didn't make sense in his head. They probably would if the Marines had given him a bachelor's degree or some shit. Orson also leaned in for a look, but he too was unable to grasp at anything. Despite that, the agency's purpose was quite obvious, judging from its name alone.

"What the hell? Who filed this?"

"Prestige National Bank.", Treadway stated frankly. "Two days ago, from their San Francisco office."

Heartbeats raced in bubbling anxiety, realizing there was suddenly a wrinkle in the Endgame: their near-perfect plan of attack for the coming weeks. Caleb maintained a stoic face, but he was startled by the revelation: the Bank was supposed to be under _their_ control. The Bank was supposed to turn a blind eye and play along, as the old man instructed their Board of Directors to do so. Yet, it seemed not everyone had gotten the memo. Someone, somewhere among the ranks had sprung a leak. Perhaps an intrepid auditor that Treadway did not account for. Or perhaps an upstanding employee or a peeping tom among countless pencil pushers: someone snooping where they're not supposed to.

In short, they had _two_ loose ends to take care of. One wayward Bank and a little girl gone missing.

"Shit. This is not good."

"Indeed.", Treadway sighed to himself. "For now, our partners are in the clear. But I fear it's only a matter of time until Rainbow strikes 'em from the playing field…"

By 'partners', he was referring to the alliance of outlaws and opportunists he spent the last few months building. The Reds in the Amazon, the pirates in the Indian Ocean, and the mercenaries they brokered deals with at a _huge_ expense. Their value ran the gamut, but their purpose had not yet been served, unlike the tree-huggers of Earth's Hope whom Treadway had already discarded in full. Caleb handed the papers back to the old man; he didn't seem too fazed by the situation. Then again, Treadway was just showing a veneer of calm, as any leader would. He did the same when Freedom Day almost failed. Now, his grit and patience would be tested again, perhaps more than ever.

"…Now I don't know how Prestige National got wind of the numbers, or how far ahead is this investigation right now. But we must plug this hole _fast, _gentlemen. Tonight."

"…"

"If DC finds out our ties to the Bank, the whole operation will be unraveled.", Treadway didn't mince words.

As if on cue, one of the suit-wearing men walked away towards the Wrangler's luggage compartment in the rear. He swung it open and brought out an innocuous duffel bag, then walked back to Caleb to hand it over. Raising an eyebrow, the latter unzipped the bag, quietly smiling at what he saw inside: a rifle case with his trusted M40, painted black, and joined with a bipod, suppressor, and a Leupold 12x. It was a welcome surprise for sure. He didn't expect the schedule to suddenly shift in his favor this soon.

He looked at the old man with quiet respect, who only nodded back in reply. The bag was not a gift - it was a job he was entrusted to accomplish. Caleb no longer needed to be a wheelman or an actor playing the part. Rather, he was given the one task he had always been good at. It was an emancipation of sorts, with the figuartive leash around his wrists being loosened. No more restraints, even as the point of no return dawned ever closer. And that was the thing that Caleb had always looked his leader for. Despite the unforeseen complications announced today, at least one man knew what to do to fix it and get the plan back on track.

"Things are hot in San Francisco right now, sir."

"I know, son. That's why we'll improvise…", Treadway nodded.

Caleb knelt and brought back the rifle case back to the duffel bag. He made his way to the Civic parked behind him, stowing the bag in the trunk. At that moment, many computations ran through his head. He knew the address of the Bank's San Francisco office. The place would be a tough nut to crack even with his tools, but there were other ways to get the job done - an interdiction mission, for example. Somewhere isolated and quiet. One thing was certain: more blood would be spilled tonight. And it would appear that Treadway already had a plan in mind.

"…Mr. Rose, it appears I need your services again. I'm arranging a small team to join you and Caleb."

"Heh. As if I can refuse ya, guv. What about Rainbow and the kid?"

"They'll have to wait. I need this FinCEN investigation off our backs before I return to Nagoya."

"Right. And the target?"

"I think you know what it is.", Caleb answered his question in the old man's stead.

And _only_ the old man would have the audacity to launch a mission such as this, a few scant hours after what his men had done to Senator Darcy. Was he overreacting? It would hardly be something that anyone could hold against him, if it were true. Years of planning, months and months of painstaking planning, were about to bear fruit. He would remiss to have everything fall apart at this critical moment, because of a bunch of 'superheroes'. Caleb didn't care for the nuances, only the mission. Finally, he could get back to the field.

He relished the exasperated look on Orson's face. The damn Brit suddenly realized that he needed to step up his game tonight.

"Seriously not gonna give me a bloody hint, eh?", he yapped. "Fine then."

…

* * *

The Dare's Den  
Herefordshire, England

…

The pub's a full house. Barely any tourists, as nearly all of the patrons were locals or guys working at the RAF Base, and it was only half an hour's drive. The Dare's Den was a soldier's haunt; its brick-and-mortar walls were adorned with unit patches and 'class photos' of those who underwent the dreaded SAS Selection. It was also a great place for a dozen or so "spooks" to lounge about, blending well with the people here. In fact, nobody batted an eye to the sight of a man holding a 9mm bullet out in the open - an American man, judging from his bland drink order.

To be fair, Ethan Mallory was not really in the mood for a drink today. He was only roped along at the behest of one certain brunette and a burly Russian man, all sharing a table with him while the rest of the gang were in their own little cliques. A cold mug of lager awaited the former Delta sniper's attention, but he was busy with something else. Grey eyes scanning left to right, firm hands moving delicately, as he inspected the inert projectile between his fingers. Years of field experience taught him what to look out for in something so small, yet so deadly. All the while, happy conversations and upbeat music made for a nice atmosphere - enough to forget about his meeting with Harry, earlier today…

…

"No. No, this won't do.", he sighed.

Instantly, Emmanuelle Pichon looked offended.

"What do you mean?", she asked. "It's a non-lethal round. Ceramic casing, soft calcium carbonate tip… My best work!"

Her arms were crossed, like she was ready to debate with him right then and there, befitting a girl who had 'Rainbow R&D Defense Project Lead' as her title. The custom bullet looked like a standard-issue 9mm, but it had nifty touches that marked her handiwork. A white body and a powdery head – anyone could recognize it as a special piece of equipment. Still, the basic parts were there: case, primer, and the bullet itself. As such, the usual assumptions in terminal ballistics still applied.

"True, but it'll still punch like a hundred-fifteen-grain at least.", he continued. "That's enough force to draw blood; could even kill you if you got hit in the eye."

"*sigh* If I reduce the propellant then we're not simulating _real_ bullets. Besides, we will be wearing face shields."

"Tell that to Cav. Not even her makeup's gonna protect her from a piece of chalk flying at a couple thousand-feet per second."

Ethan handed the cartridge back to the Frenchwoman, who was obviously disappointed with his professional take on it. She didn't know that her American colleague had been quite generous with his assessment.

"You just wasted a whole day's work for me, Ethan. You know that?!"

"Hey, _you_ asked for my opinion. I gave it."

"I told you he would say that.", Aleksandr Senaviev chuckled. "It be easier if I helped you next time, _da_? I still know a thing or two about bullets, grenades… You saw the grenade launcher I brought last week?"

"Whatever.", she brushed him off.

It looked like she wanted to slam something onto the table. Figures, as she never did appreciate anyone talking smack about her creations, as expected from a fancy, affluent intellectual such as herself. But it was not as if her efforts were in vain; the fake bullet could still fulfill its intended purpose if it was tweaked correctly. On the other hand, she was practically reinventing the wheel at this point, to the curiosity of Rainbow's designated rangemaster.

"Why are we shifting to dummy rounds anyway? I thought the VR sims are doing well for us?", Ethan asked her, which seemed to cause her frown to evaporate.

"The software is becoming problematic. I guess Harry is looking for an alternative while the tech-guys work out the kinks."

"Problematic?"

"Mmm, I dunno: hit-scan detection, collision detection, inconsistencies on debris rendering…", Emma counted with her fingers. "…and the computer keeps glitching with Evans's Shock Shield for some reason. I mean, you've seen how often she sits out on our matches."

"Uh-huh."

She then reverted to a less-serious tone, giving Ethan a teasing look.

"Hold on, why are you rooting for it? I remember you hating our fancy 'video game' when you joined the Team."

"Yeah, well… it grew on me."

"Like fungus, I hope?"

She laughed and took a sip from her glass of vintage Pinot Noir, lightening the mood. Ethan could tell that her little jab at him was her way of getting back on his criticism. So typical of her, always protective of her 'babies'. And speaking of which, Ethan noticed she also brought her little AI program 'Madison' with her to the pub. Perhaps for safekeeping, as otherwise there was no reason for her to keep her handbag so close to her lap. One more visual inspection netted another insight: she had been working non-stop lately, as Emma's dress code consisted of a plain collared shirt and a pair of jeans. No lady worth her salt would have settled for something so dull, as his ex-wife would quickly remind him if she were here.

Emma still looked great. Ethan wanted to compliment her as such, but he didn't want his co-workers to have any funny ideas.

So, it was back to the dead air. Not as long as he expected it to, since the pub had plenty of good vibes to go around. As Ethan sipped his own mug, he glanced at the rest of the Team enjoying the rest and relaxation in their own way. Some of them had just returned from their own "business trips", haggling with their governments to drum up more aid for Rainbow. Jordan Trace, Jack Estrada, and Yumiko Imagawa were huddled together with the new recruits at the pub's far corner, the same recruits who barely passed their Re-Cert Day, as today's gathering was also their quasi-initiation into Rainbow. On the bar stools were Grace Nam and Mike Baker having a serious chat, probably trying to sort out their beef in this morning's training exercise at the Kill House. Meanwhile Mark Chandar, Chul Kyung Hwa, Sebastien Côté, and Craig Jenson were playing with the dartboard. Lera Melnikova and Taina Pereira, still awaiting their orders from the barman, were having a chat of their own, one that was presumably falling apart judging by the Brazilian lady's frown. The two of them had their seats reserved at Ethan's table, so at least there was something else he should look forward to.

"So…", he resumed the talks. "…Who should we blame for our little R-and-R today, eh?"

"Harry, who else?", Alex replied before taking a large gulp from his mug. "He told Valkyrie it is 'one last chance to have a good time.'"

"Pfft. I'm usually down for getting half-cut, but not this time. We still have plenty of field requisitions to finish this week, right?"

"_Da_. For something called 'Blackhaven'… or 'Nighthaven'… I think."

"See? I'd rather we stay sober for a while longer."

"_Merde_, you're such a pussy!", Emma jeered at Ethan, "The world is going to hell, Harry wants Mira and me to build a new training system from scratch - _I_ could use a drink or two."

"Hehehe. Riiight."

"Yes. A drink. And a fancy one, not the swamp-water you Americans seem to love."

She finished her sentence with a bountiful sip from her wine, pinky extended and all, purposely playing up her 'rich girl' shtick to get under the skin of her uptight colleague. Of course, Ethan knew better than to take her jabs seriously. His ex-wife used to mock his 'poor tastes' when they were still dating, teasing how Navy guys picked better restaurants. And then there was this one particular redhead who egged him for a fancy dinner in Arlington, not too long ago. It was a payment for going above and beyond the call of duty for a particularly-harrowing mission in Oregon…

…

_No._

Ethan stopped his train of thought at the last minute. He'd rather not remember his last meeting with her. Emily Jacobsen. One moment, she and Ethan were enjoying a hearty meal. Then, came a drunken tryst. The next, he was knocked out cold, dragged to a frozen ship in the ass-end of nowhere, in the company of traitors and terrorists with a perverse taste for brutality. And Emily… meeting her face-to-face in that hellhole would always be a source of nightmares. Ethan had known her as a determined, fiery, yet passionate woman - a true patriot and a relentless CIA agent. Nobody expected her betrayal. She had used Ethan to bring Rainbow to its knees, using the same menace and cunning of her trade. He remembered asking her why she joined the White Masks. 'To rebuild the empire we once were', she said.

That memory opened an old, ugly wound, briefly causing Ethan to clench the mug of beer tighter. So he forced his mind to drift somewhere happier and simpler. To where he was ignorant of Emily's true colors, back from when she had been the resident spook of his little team. He recalled the many times shit hit the fan with his best friend Gabe and the rest of AFO Blackjack, all while Emily screamed to their earpieces. The woman had been there with Ethan through thick and thin, it was inevitable he'd grow fond of her. That dinner in Arlington was inevitable. A few drinks and laughs were shared. A bond was formed, stronger and brighter than anything that came before. She guided him to her room. She placed her lips into his, and locked him in an ever-loving embrace. He felt her warmth all over, as her fingernails dug into his back and her sweet voice called his name…

…

_Damn you, Harry._

…

Ethan looked around. It seemed the rest of the gang was having fun, at least for the most part. Craig and his bros were enjoying themselves at the dartboard, judging from their shouts. Jack and Yumiko were now sharing laughs and teasing looks amidst the new recruits, much to the chagrin of an exasperated Jordan, or it could be the alcohol starting to act on them. Grace and Mike remained the same, ignoring each other for the most part, but they weren't getting all belligerent either. Surprisingly, Taina and Lera were giggling like schoolgirls, probably relishing the childishness around them.

This all came to a sudden, abrupt halt when the barman suddenly turned up the volume on the TV. On the screen was a news room, a fancy British anchorwoman, and headlines that didn't complement the mood.

…

_"…following the attack on Senator Patricia Darcy's residence in San Francisco. The FBI have now confirmed the identities of the three fatalities: one Justin Cosgrove, a staffer at her California office, the other two were teenagers linked to a militant socialist collective in Utah, who are now believed to have disguised as delivery crew to smuggle the bomb intended for the Senator. Needless to say, the incident severely impacted the relationship between the White House and the Kremlin, after the former pulled out its diplomatic delegation in Moscow recently… As of 12 o'clock Greenwich Mean Time, a media blackout has been imposed by the Department of Homeland Security, as a preemptive measure against misinformation and other potential attacks the American government thinks may still be underway…"_

…

One by one, Team Rainbow stopped the merrymaking and looked at the screen, together with the rest of the bar's patrons. It was a rude reality check that they sorely didn't need.

…

_"_…_In an astonishing display of solidarity, Darcy's supporters and detractors in Capitol Hill have issued a joint-statement this morning, proclaiming that the persons responsible for the attempted assassination will be punished with extreme prejudice. A few unconfirmed reports have said that Russia's Federal Security Service was involved in the plot to kill Senator Darcy. When asked for a comment, the Russian Ambassador to the United States denounced the new accusations as irresponsible, needless rumor-mongering that would only escalate current tensions to dangerous heights_…_ For now, the US Congress plans to convene a special session later this week, a session which several critics believe will seek to pass yet another bill to authorize "more aggressive measures" against those deemed belligerent to the United States."_

…

Remembering the one Russian at his table, Ethan looked at Alex, who was visibly concerned with the words coming from the telly. Jolly and laid-back as he was, he had every right to become sullen hearing about grim tidings too close to home. The brawny man looked to his side, eager to hear what his American colleague had to say.

"What's your take on this, _bratan_ (brother)?"

Ethan kept his composure, thinking of an honest answer. In truth, even he had doubts about it.

"There won't be a war, Alex. We ain't that stupid to start the apocalypse because of one Senator's pissing contest."

"Really? Your Navy is already in my country's backyard."

"*sigh* The John P. Ryan has, what, one Marine battalion and maybe a couple dozen bombers? That's a show of force: barely enough for an invasion if we really wanted a fight."

_If_, not when. The distinction was important, as even Ethan himself couldn't even fathom the carnage that would come if someone at the Pentagon pushed the 'big red button'. Though, he couldn't help but be pessimistic himself, now that an American Supercarrier had docked in the Baltic. A few years ago this would've been inconceivable, but the Saint Claire Law had pretty much given America the perfect excuse to flex its muscles. It was Harry's worst fear: that something as innocuous as a piece of paper could be the only thing that stood between uneasy peace and total war. It was hard to believe that _this_ was the wet dream of Earth's Hope.

Still, the American couldn't help think at the back of his head that this was all Emily's idea from the start.

"It seems anything is possible nowadays, Ethan. I won't be surprised if your government did something cute while we hunt down the real masterminds.", Emma gave her two cents.

"If Homeland Security had their way, probably.", he replied to her, shrugging his shoulders. "Hell, they might even put a kill order on our heads, as payback for how we undermined them in Freedom Day."

Alex laughed and grinned.

"Can I expect you to turn a gun on your own, then?"

"Why the hell not?", Ethan didn't hesitate to answer. "I'm with Rainbow now; I'm not gonna let Uncle Sam punish _us_ for doing our jobs."

He then took a swig from his mug, letting the cold beer wash down into his throat. Much as he'd like to switch topics and comment on the fine-tasting British liquor, his mind was now fixated on current affairs. Between the recent attacks from Earth's Hope and the attempt on Senator Darcy's life, even a soldier like himself would be anxious. Not out of his own safety, mind, but on the ramifications on the world at large. War. He'd seen it with his own eyes. If Afghanistan and Iraq were anything to go by, a major war with Russia would be the stuff of nightmares to say the least. They would be an enemy who could fight back, to say nothing of what they could bring to the homefront. Briefly, he thought about his daughter and her mom, in Long Island. What would happen to them if things take sharp turn for the worst?

Was this part of Emily's grand plan? Ethan didn't want a solid answer to that, even though her idea of rebuilding America through fire and blood was already coming to fruition. Harry was of the same mind, which was probably the impetus for their meeting earlier today. If the trouble brewing across the world was indeed the machinations of a rogue CIA agent, then only she would know how to stop it. 'If she was still alive', Ethan reminded himself. As for him, he finished his mug, bottoms up, so that he would no longer dwell on such a terrible thought. He continued to watch at the news story, even when the words eventually became white noise in his brain. Whatever questions he still had, they were placed in the backburner.

When he turned to Emma, she was looking warmly at him.

"You're such a hero.", she said.

Ethan fell silent for a while. If she was condescending or genuine in her words, it was hard to tell, but he could've sworn to have seen a bright luster in her green eyes, echoing her heart. The message rang true, although he still played along like it was another jab from her.

"Ugh. Don't patronize me, Em."

"Enough with the doom and gloom, guys. Aren't we here to have fun?", another woman blurted out.

It was Lera, coming to their table with a sweet grin of her own, holding a tray of five more mugs of beer. Her sleeveless yellow shirt completely exposed her arms, and her brusque background, to the eyes of any leering onlooker. And onlookers she did have, as a few patrons turned her heads to her direction, likely because of her sensual Slavic accent or that hideous scar on her face. It could also be due to the feisty undercut of her red mane, which was markedly different from what the locals were used to.

"Your boyfriend started it, doctor.", Ethan remarked.

"Boyfriend?", she feigned offense, then looked to the Russian bloke by the table. "Hmm… What do you think, Sasha? Is that what you are to me?"

Alex, predictably, returned pet name in kind, spouting something in his tongue that neither the American nor the French could translate in their heads. As for Ethan, it was perhaps the first time ever he saw two ex-Spetsnaz commandos flirt with each other. It was cute and unnerving, but the same could be said to any budding relationship among "spooks". He could use another drink, which the good doctor was all too gracious enough to provide from her tray.

"_Spasiba_ (Thanks).", Ethan nodded.

His second mug was generous serving of Guinness this time, as he was done with the local brew. Behind the red-haired doctor was Taina, with a tray of chips and other treats. She was stoic as ever, but it was safe to assume that she was about to have enough of their shit as well. So after she set down the tray of food, she caught Emma's attention with a tip of her chin, then tossed at her something small. The Frenchwoman caught it with two hands with no problem; it was a clear sign she was not yet inebriated.

"What's that?", Ethan asked, to which she held out a small USB stick.

"Schematics for the new proximity sensor.", she gleefully explained. "Mira has also been working on a prototype for days now…"

She tucked the USB into her backpocket, then looked at Ethan with a taunting, playful gaze. Her green eyes seemed to give wildly different impressions.

"…Should I count on your professional opinion for this one as well, _Monsieur_ Mallory?"

He paused for a moment, thinking up a cheeky answer.

"_Je suis à votre service _(I'm at your service).", he grinned.

He thought she'd be impressed with his French. Instead, Emma replied with a giggle. She paid more attention to Taina, who sat beside her, rather hesitantly judging by her face. Emma patted her shoulder as thanks for the plate.

"At least this one doesn't mind sharing a drink with me. Isn't that right, sister?"

"Don't touch me, please.", went her Brazilian friend, mildly irritated.

A few laughs went the rounds. Before they dug into their plates, Ethan saw that Emma also ordered a pint of Guinness to go with her wine. He held back a laugh, realizing that she was so intent on being shit-faced today; her job at Rainbow's R&D Labs might be _really_ taking a toll on her. Luckily for her, she wasn't the only one with the heavy burdens.

"So!", Lera spoke out. "Seeing this could be our last happy hour for quite a while…"

She raised her glass for a toast.

"…To the Team?"

"To world peace, I guess.", Ethan joked.

Emma did him one over, pulling out the last thing that deserved praise today: the ceramic cartridge with a white tip.

"To this damn bullet.", she smiled. "I hope I get it right next time."

"Cheers!"

*ting!*

…

* * *

Outskirts of Marin City, California  
Eight hours later

…

At long last, Caleb was back in his element: a camouflaged jumpsuit, plastic bags on his hands and feet, and a sound-suppressed sniper rifle perched up on a small hill. The black, starless sky made him blend well with his surroundings, even though there was nobody to hide from at this hour. Still, he felt right at home - no more bombs, no more bullshit.

"Ajax to Odysseus.", his earpiece rang with a raspy male voice.

"Go for Odysseus."

"We're tailing the target, twenty yards out. Confirm you have a visual?"

Caleb peered into his M40's Leupold scope, with a night optic mounted in front of it, with his balaclava pressing into the scope's rims. A bag in the rifle's chamber would catch the bullet casing once he rotated the bolt. Briefly, he adjusted windage and magnification, then placed the crosshairs above a curved bend on the road, flanked by trees and tall grass on either side. Judging from the grayscale image from his scope, there was virtually no activity tonight, aside from a few moles and stray dogs. But only a few seconds after his comrade's message, Caleb saw a car coming up on the road, not too far from his spot. It was a white Chevy Impala. Its yellow headlights made it a bit hard for the sniper to identify the occupants. The time of arrival was spot on, as the Bank's itinerary said it would be.

"Check that. I see him.", he replied. "Guy in the suit, driver's side. One adult female on the passenger side…"

Tonight's target was a bespectacled young man, not someone on Caleb's shortlist of victims but one unfortunate soul marked out by current events. The sniper quickly corrected himself: _two_ unfortunate souls, seeing that the guy had someone else by his side tonight, presumably his girlfriend. She had an Asian complexion, what with the narrow eyes and the long dark hair. They were both in their office attire, so they could've just come back from an all-nighter.

"…Target vehicle is half a klick from the fire zone. Get ready to move in on my call, Ajax."

"Roger."

The job was to extract the target from his vehicle, simple as that. To achieve this without landing tomorrow's six o'clock news would require some creativity, which was why Treadway asked Caleb and his partner to orchestrate an accident. Just four hundred or so meters ahead from the car was a small IED that Orson created to simulate a tire blowout. It had no wires, no fuses, and it looked like a lump of clay on the road, so it needed to be detonated 'manually' through an incendiary round courtesy of a sniper. While a tad complicated to use, the explosive device was designed leave no evidence the cops could use; its chemistry made it so that it would completely disintegrate upon detonation. Used well, it would produce scorches and skids seen in any other crash. The plan hinged on the driver stepping out of the car once the mine went off, giving the opening that Ajax and his crew needed to snatch him up.

"Hehehe. Countin' on ya not to miss, mate.", Orson radioed gleefully. He was presumably riding shotgun in Ajax's vehicle, trailing behind the target's.

"Shut up."

"Eh, just make sure to hit it yeah? One chance."

Caleb didn't respond. Rather, he rested his right index finger onto the trigger, controlling his breaths, bracing the buttstock, and planning the best trajectory for his shot. He took account the wind and the humidity, making precise calculations in nanoseconds just like the Corps taught him to. Then, he blocked out all distractions from his mind. Neither hesitation nor excitement filled his veins; he needed to focus as the moment of truth dawned closer.

Soon enough, the car entered the designated "fire zone", clocking in about thirty-five miles per hour - a leisurely drive by all accounts. Caleb counted down in seconds until the exact moment when the car would drive over the IED. The timing had to be precise if he wanted to achieve the desired effect. As the seconds ticked off, the sniper held his breath and kept his trigger-finger steady. His crosshairs remained fixated on the mine, while he also reminded himself to look for the target vehicle's headlights as his cue to shoot. Mine, headlights, shoot. His brain repeated the sequence of events like a mantra.

…

*Thwoop!*

He pulled the trigger at the exact moment the Impala's left front tire made contact with the small explosive device. A quaint pop and a bunch of sparks came after, with rubber shreds littering the asphalt. While Caleb retracted the bolt from his rifle, he heard the squeaking of the brakes, telling him about the driver's futile attempt to regain control the car.

"Hit confirmed. Target vehicle is swerving off the road."

It almost looked like the Impala was about to flip. But when it veered off the asphalt, it came to an immediate stop thanks to the grass on the roadside cushioning the impact. From his scope's crosshairs, Caleb saw the occupants get thrown back in their seats like a violent whiplash, although their seatbelts saved them from any real harm. The spectacle was over in a matter of seconds.

As expected, the driver stepped out of the car to figure out what went wrong. All the while, it sounded like he and his girlfriend were having a rather loud discussion. They were so far away for the sniper to get more than an earful, but their words were irrelevant. As the driver knelt in front of his ride, the woman also took off the seatbelt and got out to help her man. The two of them were oblivious to the two Jeep Wranglers that were coming up to them from behind, quietly. Ajax had ordered their headlights turned off, to add to the surprise.

It was time.

"Go, go, go. You have fifteen seconds.", Caleb radioed to them.

On cue, four men from the first Wrangler got out and crept up on their quarry. These men donned grey jumpsuits and white balaclavas, with their hands and feet covered in plastic bags so as to not leave behind a trace that the cops could use. Caleb observed as his comrades approached the targets in an echelon formation, moving quickly and as one, with Ajax at the head. Their main target was so incredulous to them all that he could only let out a muffled scream after a hand covered his mouth from behind. He struggled and flailed, only to receive a gut punch for his troubles. His girlfriend didn't fare any better either, as she too was quickly subdued in a split-second after she saw the masked men behind her.

"Targets captured.", Ajax radioed as he swiftly led his men back to the Wrangler. "Odysseus, we're headed to the primary rendezvous now."

"Roger. I'm headed down from the hill. Meet you at the intersection, out."

And just like that, Caleb's role in the mission was over. He quickly folded the bipod of his M40, took off the suppressor and the magazine, then set everything back to the rifle bag strapped to his bag. He made doubly sure that the spent casing was accounted for. With everything packed up, he raced down the hill as quickly as he could, encountering the first Wrangler a scant few seconds later. A door opened for him and he hopped on board. The second vehicle, now out of his sight, was presumably doing a clean-up job at the scene of the crash.

There was no time for the proverbial pats on the back. As soon as Caleb sat at the passenger side, the Wrangler sped to the designated meeting area in the woods, which was only a few kilometers away. They had plenty of time to get answers from the target, who was sitting behind him at gunpoint. The girlfriend was just a seat away; her wrists were being tied up with a pair of plastic cuffs. They both whimpered like children in their midst. Orson Rose, donning a black balaclava to distinguish him from the rest, watched candidly from the rear. Caleb looked at the rearview mirror, eager to see his comrades at work…

…

"Lyle Harkin.", Ajax addressed the captive.

At that moment, the fearful sobbing ended, as the young man seemingly recognized the voice behind the mask.

'Ajax' was yet another of Treadway's cadre of trusted operatives. He was a burly and consummate worker, most likely a former military guy like the rest, judging from his grit. Caleb heard that while he languished in the CIA's custody during Freedom Day, Ajax and his team ambushed a Marine convoy headed for a training exercise in Morocco. It was a perfectly-executed job, the old man narrated, but that was simply on par with what the other cells had accomplished elsewhere. Tonight should be no different.

"You…? It's you…", Harkin spoke between breaths.

"Lyle, what the hell is going on?!", the Asian girl demanded. "Who are these people!?"

"Shhh.", Ajax pulled his sidearm on her, cocking the hammer for extra emphasis. It quickly put her in her place.

"Please, please don't! Please don't hurt her!"

Harkin's begging was heeded, but only by a hair's breadth. With a pistol pressed into the yuppie's gut, Ajax rifled through his pockets for an ID. He ordered one of his men to do the same thing to the girl, who sobbed in protest. Soon enough, they found two cards of note and handed them to Caleb for his confirmation. It checked out well. 'Lyle Harkin', division chief at Prestige National Bank, and one 'Maya Tanabe', junior analyst.

"Evening, Mr. Harkin.", Caleb greeted him. "We thought you were alone tonight…"

He then glanced to his side.

"…I guess you know why you are here?"

It took a few more seconds for Harkin to respond. He looked at Maya, dejectedly, and then at his captors, finally realizing that there was no escape from this ordeal. He had to come clean. And true enough, he was well aware of the purpose behind his capture.

"Look, I… I tried to stop it, you know?", Harkin calmly responded as best he could. "But my senior analyst couldn't resist! S-She went behind my back and talked to the Treasury Department."

"We don't care. We just wanna know what else you're doing to fix this.", Ajax brushed off his excuse.

"I-I can… I'll go to the Board tomorrow and beg them to stop the investigation! I swear!"

Caleb sighed, a mix of disappointment and contempt in his heart. He could not believe the person he was ordered to nab. 'Division Chief'. At best he was a glorified pencil-pusher, one who would quickly fold under duress. To be fair, Treadway didn't really expect to be working directly with him. _Any_ branch manager in Prestige National Bank could've fulfilled the menial task of bookkeeping for the White Masks; it just so happened that the old man got a squeaking, lily-livered millennial on his plate instead.

"Not good enough, Harkin.", Ajax shook his head. "The document has been logged; a bigwig from the White House could look into it right now and then we're all fucked. We need you to scrub it _tonight_."

"It doesn't work that way! I-I-I… I'll get caught if I tampered with the database at home!"

"*scoffs*"

"Please! I'm telling you the truth!"

Seeing a potential dead-end in his midst, Ajax asked a different question.

"Who is this analyst you're talking about?"

The poor yuppie sweated even more, if his terrified breaths were not enough to give it away. Unlike him, his girlfriend Maya was far more composed. She figured out his line of thinking, and quickly beckoned to him with dread in her voice.

"No, Lyle! Don't!"

But of course, Harkin spilled the beans with no hesitation.

"Erin Cosgrove. She's at UC Medical, in San Francisco. She was… she was there in Darcy's place last night, when those psychos bombed the… uh…"

The words caused Caleb to raise a brow. Talk about a stroke of luck: this analyst had crossed paths with them without their knowledge. Was it a twist of fate or sheer coincidence? Either way, the revelation only made their jobs a bit easier. Treadway would know what to do next. Lyle Harkin seemed to have gotten a similar impression. He was confused at how his captors initially reacted, until he started to put the dots together in his head. He looked at the masked men, confused at their sudden silence. Curiosity slowly changed to a face filled with terror, as it dawned on him he had just signed a few death warrants with his words.

"…Wait… It was you… It was you, wasn't it?"

"Maybe. Maybe not.", Ajax shrugged.

This caused Harkin to panic even more, finally realizing the true gravity of his actions. Caleb relished the fear in the poor man's eyes, hiding his grin behind the balaclava.

"No! NO! You can't activate Zero Protocol! Millions are gonna die!"

"Please. Don't think you can grow a backbone now, Harkin. You _never_ had any.", Ajax taunted him.

"Don't do this! This isn't what we agreed! You promised there won't be a- "

Suddenly, black gloves emerged from behind him, and gripped his head and neck. Then theyy jerked sideways with a swift bone-crushing crack, fast enough to cause Harkin to let out a quick gasp until his eyes rolled up. A moment later, the gloves released him, letting his lifeless body to crumple into a heap in his seat. His slit-eyed girlfriend screamed and bawled, almost ringing a few ears. Another masked man reached for her mouth to cover it, and the grip on her wrists became that much stronger. It happened so quickly that Caleb's muscle memory kicked in first - reacting to the sudden commotion by pointing his pistol at the source.

It was Orson, looking unenthused by the weird looks his colleagues were giving him.

"What?", he asked his mates in a deadpan manner. "You were gonna off him, right?"

"For fuck's sake. How about a heads-up next time? I almost planted a hollow point in your skull."

"Nah, you ain't that sloppy. You and I are gifted, remember?"

God-given gifts. A quick snicker came from the Brit, a twisted sense of humor. This was anything but funny to the poor woman at their mercy, however, as she panicked and struggled even more at the sight of her dead lover. The masked men held her in place; her screams and cries for help remain muffled by a sturdy Kevlar glove. Caleb ignored her, tending to his earpiece. It was time to ask for his next orders.

"You got all that, sir?"

…

Treadway had been listening in all this time. One could assume he was sitting behind the computer at the local Homeland Security office, somewhere in California. By the tone of his voice, he was concerned about Harkin's revelation.

"Yes. I've been to the place this afternoon.", the old man replied. "Explains the FBI's tight security over there. And according to the hospital's records…"

A few seconds of silence went by, probably meant for several keystrokes.

"…It seems she's in stable condition too."

"Fuck.", Caleb cursed. 'Accidental medical death' was not in the cards. "You want us to go after her?"

"Not now, we can't risk it. Even if you slipped through, we'll cause a stir if something happened to her under the Feds' noses…"

Treadway paused again, presumably reading something from his desk.

"…I think we can do something different for her anyway. Just need to make a call to the safehouse."

"What about the report?"

"Send me Harkin's ID. I'll file a request on his name from my computer, then have Homeland write an affidavit. That should expedite the request and buy us time."

"ID's a keycard too, huh? I'll drop it in the usual place. Too damn risky for us to meet face-to-face."

"Hmm. Now that's a good man…"

Caleb chuckled. He didn't know what to do with the compliment, but he appreciated the thought. He'd rather the old man his part; he promised to buy time and hopefully that would be spent to plan for that Cosgrove woman. Her and Agnes Kipper. Surely Treadway already had something prepared for the kid as well.

Before long, the vehicle finally arrived at the woods. From beyond the windscreen, Caleb could see a few more masked men in the tree line, guarding the perimeter and itching to finish their part in the mission. They would dispose of Harkin's corpse here; the methods for which didn't concern the sniper. Ajax and another man got out of the Wrangler, carrying the young man's lifeless body with them. The rest of his crew were still in the second Wrangler, and would catch up to them after they were done cleaning up the scene of the accident. All in all, tonight had been another job well done. Another notch for a group of pros dead-set at fulfilling one man's vision, making history once again.

"…We're getting close now, son. Moscow… Hereford… America's time to shine is nigh.", Treadway spoke through the earpiece. "When Rainbow finds Orson-"

"We know what to do, sir. What about Harkin's girlfriend?"

Caleb glanced at the poor woman behind him. Her tears flowed like rivers, her constant sobbing made her catch her breath, but to no avail. No doubt she could hear the conversation as it went on.

"I will leave it to you."

And with that, the call ended. Knowing what he needed to do, Caleb sighed and pointed his gun at the girl – one last job before he could call this one a wrap.

"Please *sniffles*… Please don't kill me!", she begged.

He tilted his head for a bit, as if to play with her.

"Hmm. That depends…"

Caleb raised the gun between her teary eyes, unmoved by her pleas. The old man didn't want any loose ends, but his orders weren't explicit either. There could be an excuse to have some fun for once. It wouldn't take much to pull the trigger.

"…Are you gonna talk?"

…

* * *

En route to Hereford Base  
Herefordshire, England

At the same time

…

Nighttime. It was a little later than Ethan expected to hit the road and get back to the barracks. True to his word, he didn't drink much. That meant he still had a clear head after hours of revelry in the town, although also sobriety meant he was the night's designated driver, much to his chagrin.

He sat behind the wheels of a black Vauxhall Astra, navigating a quiet road with a pair of headlights guiding him through the dimness. The rest of the Team were still partying, having insisted to come home on their own volition beforehand. Fine by him, since he already had his hands full with one wasted operator. Beside the driver's seat was a certain spunky, smarty-pants French girl who was more than a bit tipsy. Slumped on her seat, eyes closed and hair disheveled, she sorely needed to get back home, and fast, or else she would do something un-ladylike in the streets. Again.

"…Those two boys were part of that group the White Masks worked with in Oregon last year.", Harry spoke through the loudspeaker of Ethan's phone, referring to the news story earlier today.

"America's True Patriots. I still remember them."

True to form, the Director of Team Rainbow still found the time to make a business call. Ethan was annoyed by his doting, tonight of all nights, but at least the guy took his job incredibly seriously.

"So you know they're a rustic, familial bunch.", Harry continued. "The men went out to fight and die, but they sent their kids to Utah beforehand, out of harm's way."

"Or to act as suicide bombers for later."

"True. That explains why their 'militant socialist collective' owned shelter homes for runaways and orphans. Devious, but quite creative I must say."

Ethan continued his quiet drive as the conversation went on as normal. Soon, he encountered the first set of checkpoints leading back to Hereford Base, perhaps the only other place worth of note in this part of England. Upon nearing the checkpoint, his headlights shone on a guard shack, in which one of the soldiers raised a hand and ordered him to stop. Another asked for his identification, while a third man ran an electronic scanner on the car. Standard operating procedures went on, including a sly question about the drunk lady-friend which Ethan was more than happy to play along. Within seconds the car was let go, and the driver nodded back to the soldiers as thanks.

"*sigh* The uranium thefts, the bombings, the trouble with Russia, now this attack on Senator Darcy…", Harry went on. "…I'm now certain they are all connected."

"Yeah, no shit. Four kinds of bad news and we're just starting the year… Is MI5 still looking into the bank accounts Nøkk sent us?"

"Yes. Valkyrie is in close communication with Director Sweeney, in London."

"The lead is promising but I won't get my hopes up. If the bad guys know what's coming to them, they'd be cleaning house at this point…", Ethan stated frankly.

In other words, Rainbow would only find more dead ends with the initial intel Nøkk had given them, as any militant group like the White Masks should be tying up loose ends after what they pulled in Europe and America. A change in strategy was needed for the Team, or at least something running parallel with their current efforts. Good thing, the old Rainbow Six had already gotten the ball rolling on that regard; the Grim Sky Team had given them one more name to work on.

"…We need to find this Orson Rose-guy, ASAP. And I hope Amaru and Goyo would have something for us when they get back."

Harry paused and let out a faint chuckle.

"Seems to me you are far too familiar with how the enemy thinks, Ace."

"I worked with the Special Activities Division, remember? This is all smoke and mirrors. Whoever's behind Earth's Hope is stirring chaos to mask their _real_ plan of attack. It's how we would've done it…"

And by extension, the White Masks, seeing that they counted a bonafide SAD Case Officer among their wretched ranks. Emily Jacobsen. She could shed light on all of this. If she was still alive. There was no point delaying the decision that Harry had been expecting him to make all day.

"…And if the White Masks _are_ coming back, we're gonna need answers from the she-devil herself."

"Ah, so you finally agreed to-"

"Yes. Much as I hate it.", Ethan cut him off. "I'll be missing out on a lot of things."

Another checkpoint neared, this one just a few meters away from the main road leading into the Base's entrance. Standard procedures again. One soldier asked for identification, while another scanned the car. However, this time Ethan felt rather anxious. A part of him didn't want to agree to Harry's request, but he knew that he wouldn't be at peace if he turned it down. This was his one last chance to set the record straight, to know the truth about everything that happened these past few months. The thought lingered in his head as he stepped on the gas pedal, the soldier waving him through the checkpoint. It was as if the last stretch of asphalt marked his own little point of no return. The voice in the cellphone didn't help either.

"Thank you, Ethan. I appreciate the sacrifice."

_Yeah, right._

"When do I leave?"

…

At long last, he had reached the barracks. He parked the car just in front of Building C's main lobby, as it was only a short walk from the women's wing. Sighing to himself, Ethan switched the ignition off and pulled the hand brake, before he started to wake his female colleague from her deep slumber.

"Hey. We're here."

She mumbled breathlessly in response; she was probably dreaming. Ethan was having none of it, however, and shook her shoulder even more. He couldn't hide his frustration with her, especially considering the embarrassing shit she did at the Dare's Den. He made a mental note: in their next pub crawl, he would make damn sure to stop Emma from mixing her fancy vintage wine with strong beers. Smart and brave she might be, the shit she pulled tonight was quite irresponsible.

No doubt her head was like a roller-coaster now. She continued to resist Ethan's prodding, as neither the tugging on her shirt nor the light slaps to her face stirred her. So he finally decided to drag her out of the damn car himself. He stepped out of the driver's seat and walked to the passenger side, relieving his colleague from her seatbelt. This seemed to have worked as rather than push him away, Emma took the hint and draped her right arm over his shoulder. Good thing too, as her legs staggered and almost tripped on the way out. The last thing he needed was her to throw up all over his clothes.

Taina blew a gasket when she did that to her a while ago.

"Come on, Em. Come on. Easy does it…"

"_Non, non_. _Je… Je peux__…__ marcher seule _(I can walk on my own). _Je peux marcher seule_…"

"*sigh* Yeah… that's what they all say."

Ethan quickly helped her on her feet and made their way inside the building. He made sure not to let her fall, as all she could do was hobble in her inebriated state. Briefly, he was tempted to simply scoop her up in his arms so that they could move faster. Wouldn't be the first time he did it anyway. Alas, he found her room not too far from whence they came. The moment they reached the door, Ethan unlocked it with a key from Emma's back-pocket. He stumbled across a quaint but tidy room. The lights were closed. The was inviting.

"Alright, upsidaisy.", he carried her to the mattress.

"Hahaha! Weeee!", she waved her arms.

The man groaned, verbally and in his head, as her body bounced from the comfy mattress. She giggled like a loon, eyes closed, before her slowly dozed off again. Mentally, Ethan berated himself for volunteering for something like this, as he just had enough of her antics. To be fair, he was lucky the alcohol only made her a bit more carefree; she could've turned into a sobbing mess or a loud-mouthed headcase after having so many swigs.

Shaking his head, he started to leave the room. He didn't bother to bid her a good night.

_…_

"Hey. Ethan…"

His body froze, with a foot barely halfway through the door. He turned around and was startled to see her staring at him, green eyes fully opened. She laid on her side with her head propped up by her elbow. She was smiling.

"You want to… wanna make up?", she spoke softly.

"Huh?"

"This is your chance_…_"

Before Ethan could ask her to make sense, Emma undid the top half of her collared shirt. Buttons parted the fabric, revealing her ample cleavage. Her hand then slowly reached down to her stomach and lifted the lower half of her top. Then, she undid her jeans, peeling the denim to expose her pristine flesh and a bit of her panties. Ethan said nothing, only feeling a tiny gasp escape his throat. He was caught completely off-guard, while she relished the moment with a seductive smile.

"…I couldn't stop you… if you did anything to me."

She was still wasted. Uninhibited. Tempting. Ethan felt something surge in his chest, making him even more uncomfortable, something he didn't expect to feel again so soon. His breathing quickened and he felt his heart beat faster, things that sought to cloud his judgement. Before he knew it, he started making his way back to the bed. The Frenchwoman giggled as he approached, not knowing the thoughts bombarding the man's head. He had the perfect excuse: the drinks had finally gotten into him. He reached out a hand and placed it on her shoulder, then he leaned his face close to hers. She, in turn, closed the distance between them…

"Get some sleep, Em."

…And then he pushed her back down, startling Emma. At least that's what Ethan thought. Rather, he only fufilled her pathetic amusement.

"Hahaha! You really _are_ a pussy! Hahaha!"

The insult fell to deaf ears; Ethan knew better than to take such ramblings to heart. Emma's giggling resounded across the room, slowly ceasing as drunken stupor overtook her yet again. The man hoped she had not been loud enough to rile somebody else from their sleep, peep into their business otherwise. Now _that_ would surely get them both in trouble. Ethan sighed and shook his head, then returned to the door. Tonight assured him that even the closest friends could do something stupid, once enough beers were shared between them.

'Friend'. Part of him didn't want to believe that was the only thing he thought about her. Best he could do was remain a good man, like he always tried to be.

He still had doubts and misgivings, but he was indeed fond of her. And this could be the last opportunity to claim something good for himself, only to let it slip through his fingers. Who could blame him? The looming war between two superpowers, the brewing conspiracy created by the terrorists… it would be hard for Ethan to find a semblance of peace in the coming days. Yet he knew better than to sully someone's dignity, let alone his. He could take Alex's advice and enjoy life, yet it would only be a matter of time until he returned to the fire anyway. And what a fire it would be, returning to America, searching for a traitor he once bedded, just so he could bring an old enemy out in the open. It would be a dangerous and thankless job, but he knew he had to do it. It had to be him, as he had been there in the beginning…

…

…The thoughts lingered as he stepped out of Emma's room, carrying a new burden in his heart. He peered into the half-opened door to check on the young woman, one last time. It was such a curious sight to behold. She was still awake and looking into him, longingly. She returned his gaze through the tiny slit with a warm smile. A long silence befell them, but this time there was no mischief.

They both had plenty of time to think.

…

The door closed. No footsteps echoed the hallway.

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **This chapter turned out quite longer than I initially planned, but I hope the wait was worth it. There wasn't much action here, I know, but the story's gonna pick up soon, now that Amaru, Goyo, and NIGHTHAVEN are gonna take the spotlight in the next bit. And in case anyone didn't notice, I also made a few not-so-subtle references here about the latest cinematic that Ubisoft showed during the Invitationals. Not sure if I should dedicate an entire chapter for that, though.

Please stay safe and stay healthy, everyone. These are crazy times we're living in. :)


	8. Chapter 7 - Comrades

**.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven - "Comrades"**

* * *

Summer 1970  
Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico

...

_Goddammit, I hope we're not too late._

Robin tapped his foot, incessantly, as the taxi cab drove on. The leg ravaged in Hamburger Hill didn't hurt as much as the last few months did, but the pain was nothing compared to the tension in his heart. A phone call from last week led him to this city, more than a hundred miles south of Los Angeles, to where he didn't expect a long lost friend to end up in. In a way, this trip was a rescue mission: covert and time-bound, with lesser dangers and equally-high stakes. The difference this time was that he was an employee of Ithaca Construction Inc., not a young GI in Vietnam. The bright green flannel shirt showed just how much time had passed since he had been in action.

"You two okay back there?", Chuck asked.

Robin nodded in response, as did his seatmate, Trish, while they continued the journey through the streets of Tijuana. Prescription glasses reflected images of low-rise buildings all clumping together, peddlers sitting on sidewalks, people speaking a language he couldn't understand. The heat was quite strong, but wasn't as bad as a mid-day stroll in Saigon with the grunts. And just like then, Robin was joined by Chuck and his ginger mullet - the young man was also wearing the casual company clothes. He sat beside the driver with a tourist brochure and a map on his lap, pointing directions in Spanish. It was also his charm that convinced Trish to join them in their little excursion across the border.

Suddenly, Chuck spoke to the driver, pointing a finger at one particular building just a few yards ahead of them. The urgency in his friend's voice convinced Robin that they were on the right track. He leaned in from the passenger seat to confirm his hunch.

"That's the motel, ain't it?"

"I hope so. Let's go."

The trio hopped out as soon as the taxi driver stopped and the payment was made. They entered the building in a hurry, immediately headed to the front desk where an elderly woman with brown skin welcomed them in her tongue. As the only Spanophone in the group, Chuck did all the talking, leaving Robin and Trish to wait on the side. The young man could barely contain his anxiety, arms crossed and tapping his foot again. Words droned on and on in the background, but all Robin thought about was their objective. It couldn't be that hard to find a gringo in this part of the city. Alas, time was not on their side.

"He's in Room 305. C'mon!", Chuck turned around with a key on his hand.

Robin nodded, then rushed off to the stairwell, with Trish following closely from behind. Room 305. It was a short trek by all accounts, although the aching leg didn't make it any easier. Again, Robin sucked it up for every step he took. What mattered to him now was the haste and the search; he'd be damned if this trip would be for nothing. Soon enough, his group had reached the third floor with barely another soul on sight. Rather than catch his breath, the brunette young man led on and strode on the hallway, his glasses looking at the numbers to match the ones that Chuck told them. It didn't take long for him to find the place.

"Mickey! MICKEY!", Robin knocked on the wooden door.

There was no response. He took off his glasses to look into the peep hole. To his surprise, no light greeted him from the other side. Sensing something was wrong, he quickly motioned to Chuck for the key. His chest braced for the worst as the knob turned.

"Oh my God."

It was worse than they thought. The darkened room was a mess, with papers and refuse scattered all over the floorboards. A pungent, musky stench graced their nostrils, which proved a bit too much for Trish to handle, sending her in a bit of a gagging fit before she covered her nose with a kerchief. Robin took point, keeping with the military operation analogy, and treaded lightly with his friends close behind. He made sure each step was as silent as the grave, so as to not startle the room's owner. Something was _definitely_ amiss, as the place looked more like a hospice than a home. After a few steps from the threshold, Robin turned to his right, past the kitchen, the dining area and the bathroom. The latter stank far worse than the rest of the room, as though it had not been cleaned in months. Curiously, the door to the bedroom was ajar.

Robin popped his head through. His eyes scanned the room, looking at the trail of garbage that formed a small pile in one corner, as well as the end table filled with empty medicine bottles. He could hear faint gasps of breath, but could not locate the source due to the dimness. The room looked like a dark lair of some beast, made scarier by the rustling sound that came after. His heart skipped a beat, until he noticed movement under a pile of sheets and clothes on the floor. When Robin peeled the layers apart, that was where he stumbled across a coughing man with ebony skin, lying on a dirty bedroll.

He finally found him.

"Mickey!", Robin shook him. "Talk to me, man!"

"*cough* Who… What the…"

"Hey brother. It's us!"

Mickey Jones blinked his eyes, struggling to see the face of his rescuers. He was dressed in a filthy shirt and boxers that stank like the rest of the room. Hearing the voices, Chuck went inside and opened the lights. He, too, gasped at what he saw.

"Jesus Christ…!"

"Robin… Lieutenant Ja- *coughing*"

Mickey didn't look good. Beads of cold sweat dotted his body; his skin had a much paler complexion than from when Robin last saw him. Placing a hand on his forehead confirmed a terrible fear: their dear old friend was very sick. Could be malaria, typhoid, or something far more sinister. Thankfully, Trish was there to lend a hand. She knelt down and opened her handbag, which was filled with what little medicine she could smuggle through Border Control. She didn't wait for Robin or Chuck to tell him what to do. She might be just a humble waitress in Worthington, but she also had a bit of first-aid knowhow. The fact she joined this trip at all, not even knowing what awaited her, spoke a lot about her own selflessness.

"Trish.", Chuck knelt beside her. "How's he?"

The raven-haired girl paused while she tended to the ill-stricken man. Moments later, she shook her head in defeat. It was the worst answer one could expect from anyone with medical training.

"W-We need to get him to a hospital, Charlie. And fast.", she tried to remain calm. "But… I-I can't speak Spanish; we have to-"

_Charlie?_

"Say no more. I'll get to the phone downstairs. You two stay here."

"Got it, L-T.", Robin nodded back.

With urgency, Chuck ran out of the room with loud footsteps. His two friends could do nothing but stay behind and comfort Mickey in whatever way they could. Trish, ever the guardian angel, ruffled through her handbag to see if there was something, _anything_ else, that could help ease his pain. Robin, on the other hand, felt useless in his state. The best he could do was to hold his brother's hand and hug him close. A fever was burning through his body, yet his skin was cold with beads of sweat. His sickness could be contagious, but it didn't matter in the slightest.

"I'm sorry, Rob.", Mickey tried to speak. "I'm so sorry… I fucked up."

"Shhh… It's alright, brother. It's alright… At least we finally found ya.", he held his old friend tighter, consoling him.

"I should… *coughing* …Shoulda known Carlos was a bad idea… *coughing*"

Carlos. It was probably the name of the man responsible for this whole mess. Then again, even Robin had to admit he was also at fault to some degree. He didn't keep tabs on his friend when they were both discharged. For as good of a battle buddy Mickey Jones was, he had a habit of falling in with a bad crowd. First the ruffians in his neighborhood, then the druggies in Da Nang, now this 'Carlos' guy. The phone call that brought Robin here to Mexico was very specific about Mickey being in serious trouble, but nothing could've prepared the trio to see him like _this_.

"Goddammit, Mickey.", Robin cursed. "We searched all over for you. You should've told us you were in Mexico!"

The other man could only laugh, weakly.

"Needed money. I was… was a courier… Carlos paid me a grand each trip… Helped buy my p-pills… Didn't last…"

A startling discovery. Mickey was probably referring to the medication he got after he was hit in Hamburger Hill. Robin rescued him that day and took a bullet for his troubles. He and Mickey boarded the same chopper, but they got separated after that. Surely the docs didn't treat him any worse than so many other boys who got torn up in Vietnam, only to be shipped home in stretches, wheelchairs, or worse.

"Fuck…", Robin muttered, closing his eyes. "…Why didn't you stay in San Diego?!"

"VA said they couldn't pay for my meds… said 'coz I didn't get sick in 'Nam… Didn't have anywhere else to go… Carlos, he- *heavy coughing*."

Just like that, Robin felt his chest swell up in anger. He tried his damnedest to maintain a modicum of calm.

"Forget about that, okay? We'll get you home, healed up, then we'll get you a job… Chuck owns a construction company now! Can you believe it?"

"Hehehe… Ain't that the good life, h-huh?", Mickey tried to smile. "…Y'all got room for… *cough* …for one more idiot…?"

"For you, brother? Fuck yeah!"

His friend laughed back, causing the sick man to join in on the fun. For a moment, it felt like they were back in the good old days at the barracks. Back to their first meeting at Fort Campbell, and a strong friendship that started after trading racist insults. Back to their first day in Saigon, so very eager to get into trouble. Back to their first night in stinky foxholes while they waited for the enemy to come. As much as he had grown to regret his time there, Robin nonetheless thanked Vietnam for showing him what true friendship was. It was the only thing that made laughter much more real, and the tears much more sincere.

Robin and his buddy giggled like lunatics. It was hearty but fleeting, as one man's cackle turned into faint breaths. The coughing was replaced with short gasps, then a whimper. And then, there was silence. The strength in the latter's arms started to fade, the breath from his nostrils started to cease. He went still after a few moments.

"Mickey? Mickey…?"

Robin shook him awake, desperately. There was no response. Right then and there, he felt his throat swell up something fierce. Trish dropped her handbag and covered her mouth.

"MICKEY!"

…

The ambulance came as fast as it could. White-clad workers assumed they would be picking up a grievously-ill gringo from a cheap motel in downtown. Turned out they would instead be carrying a stretcher covered in a black sheet. A police car also came, perhaps as standard protocol for cases such as this. The streets briefly came to life with curious onlookers of all stripes, all of whom probably thought that a murder had just taken place in their quiet little place on Earth. In a certain perspective, they were right.

Robin sat under the Mexican sun, at the street across the motel they came from, his flannel shirt mired by dust and sweat. He looked on as Chuck helped the ambulance guys carry their friend's body. His ginger mullet hid his eyes, but an astute observer could swear to see a trail of tears on one side. Robin could've done the same, as his eyes were bloodshot and full to bursting, but he decided not to. He always joked to Mickey that he would never weep over his corpse: as a brother-in-arms, the least he could do was to keep his word, even if it was for a stupid, insensitive joke.

"Hey.", a female voice called to him.

He turned to his left, happening upon Trish's dark denims and lavender cardigan. She was worried about him, as one good friend would do to another. Her beaming smile was as warm as it did when they first met in Worthington. All Robin thought he could do was to hide behind a blank face. He tried to grin, wordlessly tell her that he was okay; she seemed to believe that little lie. She sat beside him and clasped his hand, comforting him.

"Mickey…", Robin spoke. "…He was the first guy who called me 'Robin'… We had a lot of Roberts in our platoon, you see."

"Ah, I can relate.", Trish forced a smile.

She didn't know the half of it, though. Mickey also called him 'Robin' because he was a sidekick to Chuck: the quintessential handsome rich kid, ain't afraid to get his hands dirty. If only the redhead had a brooding persona, a dark costume, and sad a tale about his parents to go with it. Only then could he be a true superhero. Nicknames and comic books: those were the fondest memories Robin shared with Mickey Jones.

A good man until the end. He didn't lose hope. He held on long enough just to see his friends again.

_And now, he's gone._

Private Mickey Jones. Fought the North Vietnamese in A Shau Valley and Hill 937, "Hamburger Hill". Dodged bullets, grenades, RPGs, and punji traps like a fucking madman. So many things could've killed him in 'Nam, so many heroic deeds of his were forgotten… only to have his end come at a stinking shithole, courtesy of a lowlife named 'Carlos Rojas'. The bastard had his name in the ledger that Mickey had in his room. Robin never heard of the guy, but he was almost certain he was involved in some pretty shady stuff. Smuggling most likely, to explain the courier-angle that Mickey said. Robin, still reeling from grief, felt something bad stir in his chest. If he ever had a hollow heart, now he felt a boiling anger rise from within him. 'Carlos Rojas'. One day, one way or another, he would get what was coming to him.

The young man clenched fists away from Trish to see. But no matter how much he tried to keep his feelings at bay, remembering the lifeless body of his brother-in-arms was enough to reignite the fire he thought he had doused. For now, though, Robin kept his calm a bit longer.

"Thanks for coming, Trish."

"It's nothing. Couldn't say no to Charlie anyway."

"Heh. Don't give me that crap. What's the real reason?"

The girl laughed to his face, like the college kid that she was. Robin was about to say something rude until he saw her expression grow more… somber.

"My dad… he fought in Korea.", she shared. "1st Marine Division. I was only a year-old when he shipped out…"

She then clasped her hands over her knees.

"…Mom always said he was a loving man, but the war changed him. When he came home, he… he was broken. Brain-damaged. He made our lives a lot harder…"

"Oh."

"…then he got really sick one day. We rushed him to the hospital… It took him days to die. The only thing we got from the government was a folded flag and his back pay…"

She turned to look at him, and he could not help but reciprocate.

"…I know how it's like, Robin."

A warm, faint grin slowly formed in his face. She did not know how much those words meant to him. But then he turned away, not wanting their talk to go to someplace it shouldn't. He instead mustered courage to ask a hard question.

"Do you know what… what killed Mickey?"

"*sigh* Infection maybe?", she shrugged. "You told me he was wounded in Vietnam. His injuries probably didn't fully heal."

Robin looked away.

"If we made this trip sooner, maybe… maybe Mickey would've…"

"I'm so sorry."

She gripped his hand with hers, squeezing it tight. Warm and honest, but it only lasted for a while. Chuck walked towards them a few moments later, like the mother hen that he was.

"Rob, Trish… You two all right?"

They nodded back.

"Let's get back to the hotel, then we head to the consulate…", Chuck scratched the back of his head, dejectedly.

He took a few steps closer to them, all while looking that he was struggling to find the right words. The trip in Mexico ended in failure after all, and it was such a bitter pill to swallow. Yet somehow, realizing that fact only caused Robin's anger to swell even more. Tellingly, he didn't accept Chuck's hand when he offered it, to help pull himself up from his spot.

"…I'll call Mickey's folks from there. Tell 'em everything. We'll pack up tomorrow."

He could've just said something else. Something _more_. Anything, other than an admittance of defeat. In a brief burst of strength, Robin swatted off Chuck's hand, then stood up from the sidewalk on his own. He confronted his friend, whose eyes went wide at the sudden outburst of emotion. There was only a foot of space between their faces, enough to get a point across.

"Is that it!? Is that all what we're gonna do, Chuck?"

"…"

"Mickey told me the VA screwed him! _They_ didn't help him because they said he didn't get sick 'in Vietnam'!"

"Robin!", Trish yelled, as if to rein him in.

The young man was fuming. He didn't forget about Worthington, about how his countrymen treated him like trash even after he fought a war his country asked him to. And boys like him were still fighting and dying for _them_. He would never forget how they abandoned Mickey and so many others like him to the streets. While rage filled his heart, the redhead kept his stoic expression, as Trish tried to intervene and separate them. It looked as though a fight was about to break out. But there came a glimpse of his authority that Chuck had always commanded. He held out a hand, telling her to stay away from them for a bit. Robin didn't care in the slightest where his words would take him to.

"What kind of bullshit's that, huh?!", he ranted. "One fucking technicality! That's all it took to force Mickey to work for some goddamn snake!"

"I know that, Rob. I know…"

"We're better than this, man! Our _people _are better than this! …If …If I knew this is how we'd end up…"

"…"

"…Maybe I shouldn't have saved him. Maybe… Maybe Mickey should've just died in Hamburger Hill. At least, he'd have dignity… die like a soldier… not like…"

Tears started to flow from his reddening eyes.

"…I …I don't want to remember him like _that_.", Robin pointed at the ambulance across the street.

He didn't snivel like a child, at least. Chuck looked behind him, seeing the red-and-white van start its engine and drive away. The siren honked loudly and annoyingly, like it was ignoble music to such a tragic death. The bystanders began to depart, returning to their lives as if nothing happened. Apathy: it looked all too familiar to the same thing he saw in America. Somewhere, someone was going through the same neglect…

…

"No, you're right…", Chuck suddenly muttered. "…It's about time we did something…"

Robin gasped silently as Chuck started to walk off with his head bowed. Bowed not out of defeat, but as one would when deep in thought. Someone like a leader would. When Chuck turned around, he looked as though he bore the same ideas as Robin did. There was a fire in his eyes. Right then and there, he wasn't some corporate slob in a flannel. He was a veteran. A proud patriot. And he had finally realized the great wrong done to his ilk.

"…Once we're Stateside, I'll talk with some people. Union guys, reservists… Everyone who's sick of this fucking war. They could help us."

"Help with what?", Trish asked.

To that, the red-haired young man paused and glanced at her.

"Change… Revolution… Whatever it takes."

There was a tone of strength in his voice, as if the officer in him had finally awoken. Robin couldn't help but form a small smile. At long last, he had found an ally, a new friend from an old, familiar face. And not just any poor schmuck who could play along for the right price, but a true brother who had his eyes finally opened to the truth. What happened to Mickey Jones was not the first, and certainly would not be the last. Tijuana, San Diego, Worthington… It didn't matter where it was - the constant neglect for heroes would continue unless something was done. If Americans let this happen _now, _how would they honor their soldiers in the future? A strong change was needed - one that would require a steep price that any man or woman should be ready to pay for. There was still hope. Mickey's death would never be in vain.

Caught up in the moment, the two men didn't notice the Mexican policeman walking towards them. He had a notebook in his hands, ready to write on it with a pencil.

"_Señores_.", the cop spoke with an accent. "Can I get your names for the report? The _Señorita_ already gave hers."

Robin and Chuck looked at each other, nodding as one while Trish observed from the sidelines. From this day forth, the two men would tread upon a different path. For their fallen brother, for all the others they had lost along the way, and all the rest they would lose still. From this moment forth, things would never be the same. They spoke their names with conviction, like it was the start of their solemn, silent pact with each other.

"Robert Treadway."

"Charles Jacobsen."

…

* * *

Present Day  
Somewhere in Selva Baja_, _Amazonía del Perú

…

"…and have your birds fly around the AO.", Dominic listened on as Miles spoke softly into the radio. "It's gonna take a while 'fore we reach the rendezvous."

"Hmph. The rebels could be planning an escape right now. But it's _your_ money, Rainbow…", a female voice radioed back.

A smile formed behind his balaclava. The Indian woman didn't know her paycheck had come from funds and assets seized from the White Masks last year. She didn't need to know the truth, nor did she deserve it. She was still an outsider after all.

"Just don't start tearin' shit until we link-up with our guys, Kali. We clear?"

"Heh, have it your way. We're waving off to a holding pattern, two klicks to the west. Radio us when you're in position, out."

And so the trek continued.

…

Dominic Brunsmeier kept his sound-suppressed MP7 at the level as he followed Agent Nøkk's lead, who had her Sako TRG raised. Nightfall was only about an hour away, so they had to make haste. He could use a smoke right about now.

More than twenty years in the Bundespolizei and the scruffy German was still not used to operating in the jungle. He didn't like the musky smell of it; he would rather clog his nose with the stench of piss, puke, motor oil, and garbage that permeated Berlin's dark alleys. The uneven ground wasn't helping matters either - each step he made brought caked mud into his boots, tempting them to slip. He moved very carefully, compensating for the rough terrain and the low visibility. One wrong move could send him tumbling down the hill they were crossing, or even startle a snake to bite him. The humid air and the buzzing mosquitos added to the list of gripes, but at least he dressed right for the occasion.

He and the two other Rainbow Operators with him were donning jungle camo alongside their kit. Not exactly the most comfortable of clothes but it did mask their profile. Nøkk, however, went a step further by wearing a dark mesh veil over her head and covering her sniper rifle with thick foliage. That level of dedication was quite typical of her, which Dominic found no reason to emulate at all. His cynical, self-effacing side called himself an idiot for even agreeing to this mission, launched less than 24 hours after he had pinched the Danish chick from prison. But on the other hand, the German was still a dutiful, resourceful team player at heart - he knew he should not chicken out of this mission because it was inconvenient. Especially now that the rest of the Grim Sky Team had to fly back to Hereford, Aria included.

"What's the deconflict call again?", he radioed Miles, who was trailing some ten paces behind him.

"Ember rise."

"Hmph. 'Ember rise'… Amaru could've just told us what frequency she was using. 'Operational security' my ass."

"Just put a pin on it, brother.", Miles spoke tersely. "I don't want a blue-on-blue on my watch, okay?"

"*sigh* Whatever you say."

Miles's presence tonight was a bit unusual, as he seldom led Ops in person anymore ever since he got shot in Oregon. And today's Op was as serious as it could get: a small group of counter-terror operatives and a couple dozen private security contractors, going up against one of the most dangerous insurgent groups in South America. The room for friendly fire was quite huge. And 'allies' was a rather loose term to describe the mercenaries that Harry called in from halfway across the world. Miles didn't have any personal knowledge of them, but he wasn't all too thrilled to know that his guys would be working with a PMC all of a sudden. Given the recent lack of American military support, however, this was an inevitability.

So much effort, all because of the intel that Nøkk secured from her cellmate in Australia, which corroborated with the information Specialist Azucena "Amaru" Quispe had been working on in Bolivia for days now. As it turned out, the people who secured the services of Earth's Hope was also in bed with the APP, '_Alianza de los Pueblos Patrioticos_', or simply the "Reds". These insurgents had made an enormous fortune providing muscle for drug cartels and antiques traffickers, even engaging in these businesses themselves at times. Today's operation was a two-fold attempt to gather information about their ties to Earth's Hope's benefactors, as well as to cripple their operations for the Peruvian government's benefit. The last bit was insisted upon by Specialist Quispe herself.

A few minutes into the trek, Nøkk suddenly raised a closed hand above her head, causing Miles and Dominic to crouch and take cover. She quickly switched to other hand signals: 'multiple movements', she seemed to say, '20 meters ahead', 'probably hostile'. The woman's hearing was uncanny, and her teammates took cover behind the rocks and trees in response. Fingers hovered above triggers as the Operators scanned their surroundings for potential targets. The low visibility made this a rather poor prospect, but the rules of engagement still applied.

"Ember.", Dominic called out in a soft voice.

…

"Rise.", a woman replied.

From a thick layer of shrubs to the north, a figure slowly emerged. Humanoid, thin, and rather tall, holding what looked like a long, suppressed shotgun. It approached the trio at a slow pace, causing Dominic to train his sights on it, as did his Danish comrade. Only when he saw the distinctive red bandanna on a short patch of black hair did he breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Nøkk, in turn, lowered her sniper rifle and relaxed her shoulders.

"_Buenas noches_, _amigos_.", Amaru greeted. The middle-aged woman had dark stripes across her face, matching her outfit's green camo.

"Amig_a_.", went the lady-sniper.

"Ah, Nøkk. It's nice to finally see you in your 'work clothes'. Seems your intel matched with ours."

The deconflict call worked. Dominic and Miles took a breather as another figure emerged from behind Amaru - one wearing bulkier clothes, a heavy backpack, and a lot of jungle face paint. This one was a man, bearing a distinctive goatee and cropped haircut. The snazzy scar on his right scalp immediately told the group who he was. "Goyo", according to Amaru; "Cesar Luis Hernández", according to his dossier. He wielded a sound-suppressed Kriss Vector.

"Specialist Quispe, Specialist Hernández.", Nøkk nodded at both of them.

Amaru smiled and nodded back, then bid the three Operators to join them somewhere. Reunited at last, they quickly made their way to a quiet spot in the jungle, one with a growing thicket of leaves and shrubs to hide their silhouettes from the dimming sunlight. Miles signaled Nøkk to cover their rear, which she did by propping up on a small vantage point near them, her camouflaged TRG at the ready. With visibility dropping, the rest of the group brought out their imaging goggles and worn them over their eyes. A distinctive ping came from Dominic's device, which then basked his dimmed vision with a green filter and gave him a pseudo-nocturnal eyesight. The quick meeting started thusly: elite counter-terror operatives all huddled in a circle, with goofy eyewear strapped on their faces.

"Give us the lowdown, Amaru.", Miles instructed.

"_Si._ The camp is to the east, half a klick. It's a small network of tents, shipping containers, and tunnels running along the hill. Our objective is a small cave entrance in the middle…"

She started to draw the layout on the ground, using a stick to mark passages and dirt paths then sprinkling them with rocks and pebbles to signify enemy structures. One looked like a barracks, a few seemed like tents or shipping containers, and another a depot of some sorts. On one particular rock, Amaru drew a big 'X' on top of it, representing their main goal: a tunnel leading to a makeshift warehouse and vault where the Reds kept its books and loot. Whatever evidence Rainbow needed to retrieve would no doubt be stashed inside. Amaru illustrated everything using her memory, which by itself was already an impressive feat.

"…We counted at least forty military-age males with weapons; could be more.", she continued, then went on to point at some bits on the diorama with a stick. "These are all _soldados, _concentrated here, here, and… here."

"Right. We only have a few guard posts to worry about, then. The rest of the tangos are in the tents."

"Think we can slip through from the rear?", Dominic also asked, while pointing at the spot he's referring.

"_Por supuesto_ (Of course). If we move fast, that is."

"I think that will be necessary anyway, _tia_ (auntie).", César commented, then looked to Miles. "We saw a few vehicles there, engines running. It looks like they're readying to evacuate."

"Aw hell no… Don't tell me they spotted us on the way here!"

"I don't think so, Castle.", Dominic shook his head. "We came on foot, stuck behind the tree line like Amaru said."

"Must be our friends in Nighthaven have spooked them.", the Mexican tipped his chin to the skies. "Even _I_ heard their choppers all the way from here."

Nobody spoke after that, as though they felt an enormous weight suddenly fall upon their soldiers, realizing how sloppy their erstwhile allies had been. Nevertheless, this was a moot point until the mission was done and dusted.

"Right. Clock's ticking then…"

Miles asked for Amaru's stick, as he prepared to lay down the plan of attack on her makeshift map.

"…We split into two fireteams. Bandit, you're with me. Nøkk will take the high ground up ahead, set up overwatch. Amaru, Goyo, set up a flank from the south-east and link up with us at the 'X'."

"We will let Nighthaven be the spearhead?", Amaru asked in a disapproving tone.

"They got the guns 'n the numbers, ma'am. Don't worry, I have comms with their boss."

"Good enough for me. My radio's set to channel one-four-one-nine. You can reach us there if you need us…"

_About time._

Dominic followed her instruction, relieved to finally have his earlier gripe addressed.

"…So, is everyone ready? _Vamonos_ (Let's go)."

And thus, the team was back in action. Dominic softly mimicked a bird whistle to get Nøkk's attention, who quickly responded with a nod before she climbed down her vantage point. The trek resumed as it did a few minutes before, but this time with an ex-Peruvian cop and a former Mexican FES trooper leading the way. Footsteps were swift and silent as always, but there was some added haste thrown into the mix, knowing that the tangos were prepping to ditch their camp. Not on his watch, Dominic said to himself.

The Operators covered the distance rather quickly thanks to Amaru's lead. Before long, they had reached the outskirts of the camp, judging by the faint voices and vehicles humming in the distance. The Reds seemed to be on the other side of another hill, presumably the same one marked in Amaru's makeshift map from earlier. Ever the expert in this type of mission, she used hand signals to tell Dominic and the others to crouch on their approach, while she and Goyo made their way to their own point of entry. With another hand signal from Miles, he told Nøkk to peel off and set up her sniper rifle somewhere, as Dominic brought out a reconnaissance drone from his backpack. He and Miles tossed their robots over the hill like grenades, being careful not to attract unneeded attention. Within seconds their goggles established a link with the little robots, prompting the Operators to pull out their PDAs.

_Here we go._

Dominic always felt ridiculous fiddling with a handheld device like this, like he was some damn millennial. But even he couldn't deny the value of the information granted by the little machines. They drove across the grass and bushes in almost complete silence, their mecanum wheels allowing them to reach places no ordinary robot could. High-definition cameras gave a clear view of the APP camp, which resembled Amaru's and Goyo's description: tents, rusty shipping containers, gun positions, and dirt paths all carefully concealed by the Amazon's flora. The place was populated by armed men - some of whom were loading their jeeps with boxes, canisters, and other forms of cargo. Oil lamps and chem-lights illuminated the camp at strategic places, just enough to keep the soldiers from tripping over each other, and also hide them from any aircraft flying over the Amazon. Per Goyo's description, the _soldados_ were jittery and anxious, and they were indeed getting ready to break camp.

Not that it mattered to the Operators, who only saw the tangos as obstacles to avoid rather than enemies to fight. If the Nighthaven choppers could draw these guys' attention, then Dominic and his teammates would have a wider window to infiltrate the camp and accomplish their objective without much fuss. Just like in the VR training, each Operator used their drones' target acquisition system to place red diamond-shaped markers throughout the camp, which could only be seen through their imaging goggles. They would use these to keep tabs on all threats and points of interest for the inevitable chaos.

"Castle to Amaru. Are you in position?"

"Affirmative, we have the southwest covered.", she replied. "No movement on our end, over."

"Copy that. Nøkk, talk to me."

"Overwatch established, two hundred meters from your right flank…", the Dane radioed back. "…I have clear sights on all red markers. Ready to engage at will, over."

Dominic smiled in his head, knowing he and Miles were in the woman's good hands. Harry might have recruited Nøkk mainly for her skills in undercover work, but she was first and foremost a _Jægerkorps_ sniper. A total professional, if the dual-band scope and rangefinder on her rifle weren't obvious enough, and a damn creepy one at that. Limiting her to a doorkicker and fragger in the combat simulations could not even begin to do her justice.

After a quick weapons check, Miles nodded at Dominic to head up the hill, following their plan of attack. The two men were crouched as low as they could, sullying their boots with even more jungle mud and leaves. Within seconds, they reached the hilltop and hid behind an overturned tree. They saw the camp as it did in their drones' camera feeds, eliciting some level of anxiety and excitement. The rebels had their guards down, ripe for a sneak attack.

"Kali, this is Castle…", Miles spoke softly into his radio. "…We're in position to the south of the camp. Are you receiving?"

The same woman he talked to earlier was there to accept his call. Her voice sounded quite condescending.

"I thought those rebels finally caught you, Rainbow. Send it."

"We have at least forty, four-zero, armed tangos in the AO. We'll paint a target for a strike, then we move under air cover. Watch out for the flashing strobes, how copy?"

"We copy: await signal for strike, watch our fire for friendlies. We will be breaking cover in one minute, out."

"Ah fuck.", Miles cursed under his breath.

It would appear that the mercenaries didn't have long patience themselves. Dominic looked at his team leader, reassuring themselves on this do-or-die operation. Equipment was quickly double-checked, particularly the infrared lights on their sleeves to give their merc-friends a heads up. There was no hesitation.

"Nøkk, laze the fuel depot to the northeast.", the German ordered.

"Copy that."

The target had a small fleet of 4WD Jeeps parked around it; their drivers' were keeping the engines running while the cargo piled up behind them. Little did the Reds know that their attempt to make a speedy getaway would actually be the start of one very, _very_ bad night for them. Dominic remained prone as he watched a long stream of red light zip across the trees and stop at the fuel depot. The laser came from Nøkk's rifle, invisible to all human eyes save for the Operators' imaging goggles. Within seconds, two Nighthaven pilots radioed in, acknowledging the attack order.

"This is Shiva-One. Target confirmed; we are weapons hot.", said a female British one.

"Indra-One here. Setting attack vector for second run, over.", an American man followed suit.

A faint rumbling came from the skies followed, causing some of the rebels to stop whatever they were doing. Dominic was startled as well; it sounded like a series of thunderclaps in the air. The soft whistling that came after confirmed his hunch, causing him to instinctively duck his head down. This noise quickly grew louder and louder, then briefly halted somewhere over at the camp. A quick flash of light and a loud bang bombarded everyone's senses, as the ground shook and wobbled violently. There were a few screams in the background; Rainbow's mercenary 'friends' were using laser-guided munitions and beyond-line-of-sight targeting. _Nobody_ could've prepared for that.

"That's our cue!", Miles exclaimed.

He quickly moved out of his cover, darting ahead with Dominic right behind him. It was now or never. As they rushed the enemy camp, two Blackhawks and four Kiowa Warriors suddenly emerged from the tree line ahead of them, automatic weapons blazing. The helicopters sported Nighthaven's dark teal color scheme and the ominous black-owl logo in their fuselage. It was a flashy entrance by all accounts, drawing the masked rebels' attention while the jungle-clad Operators infiltrated from behind. The fireball from the fuel depot burned so bright that it attracted all activity, like moths to the flame. Gunfire and shouts rang in quick intervals as the helicopters brought the rest of their guns to bear, sparking a little spot of mayhem in the vast Amazon. This allowed Miles and Dominic to dash from cover to cover with impunity.

The distraction would only last for so long.

"Kali to all units: night vision on, weapons free …", the airwaves buzzed. "…Shiva-Two and Three, dismount your squads at the southern clearing, hundred meters from the camp. Shiva-Four, maintain overhead."

Two more voices responded.

"Roger that, boss."

"Roger wilco."

"Indra-One, Two, cover the approach.", she continued. "Check fire on ground personnel with white strobes. Repeat: check fire on personnel with white strobes - they're friendlies, over."

Dominic noted the messages as he continued running with Miles. He could see the mercenary gunships popping flares and bristling with weapons, as RPGs and missiles soared through the skies. Truly an adrenaline-pumping experience to be in the midst of a full-blown gun battle, while he strode like a shadow with his partner. He minded each step, lest he would trip over himself and have a faceful of jungle mud. He watched as the red markers in his goggles started to flicker off, each an indication of a tango being taken out. Dominic's luck seemed to be holding out, as the _soldados_ were so far unaware about his presence in their camp.

It wasn't a complete cakewalk, though. Amidst the labyrinth of tents and doodads, they were bound to stumble across enemy stragglers. Some manned LMG positions, others scrambled to cover and fired back at the choppers, but a handful still formed a rearguard to watch the camp's southern approach. One such group nearly crossed paths with Dominic and Miles, whose shadows startled them from their sandbag positions. Foolishly, one of the trio stood up for a closer look, right in the center of an MP7's holographic sight, and was quickly felled by a single subsonic bullet.

"Tango neutralized."

The remaining two enemies scampered off, spooked by the intimidating goggles that the Operators wore. They ran away while shouting in Spanish, presumably to warn their fellows of the jungle-clad soldiers that crept up their camp from behind. Before Dominic could also take them down, they were immediately dispatched by a couple of silent shots that zipped from afar.

"They're down.", Nøkk radioed. "You're cleared to move, boys."

"Copy that."

Dominic and his partner pressed on; the objective was but a short dash away if his calculations were right. The bulk of the masked rebels was hunkered down near the burning depot, engaged in vicious battle with the dark-clad mercenaries. Enemy stragglers still littered the camp, however, presenting more challenges for the Operators to overcome. This time, a safer approach was realized. With a hand signal from Miles, the two of them decided to take an alternate route, crouching along the way. This masked their footsteps and minimized their silhouettes just enough for them to evade the running soldiers. It seemed to have worked, allowing them to cover more ground.

Before long, it looked like that Dominic and Miles had found a safer path. They stood up and made a mad dash towards their objective, which was only a few hundred meters away from their position, littered with debris from the ravaged camp. Shouts and automatic fire still filled the air, but none of them were near the two Operators. They trusted that Nighthaven's aim was true, keeping the bad guys occupied and thinning them out as they pressed on. They only needed to make it to an overturned truck, which was the only thing blocking their path to the cave entrance.

"_Sheise!_"

They trusted too soon. Before Dominic could make his way to the truck, a stream of bullets suddenly perforated the ground in front of him. High caliber rounds missed him by inches, forcing Dominic and his partner to fall back and hide behind a metal shipping container. The shots came from above, heralded by one Nighthaven Kiowa attack helicopter zooming from above. It left a trail of empty shell casings as it passed overhead.

"Blue! Blue! Watch your fire, goddammit!", Miles yelled into the radio.

"Do these guys need a deconflict call too?!", Dominic also shouted.

"Can it, brother! Let's go!"

They resumed their advance, swiftly and unrelenting. More Nighthaven mercenaries have started to fast rope from their helicopters, filling the airwaves with orders to move out and engage hostiles on sight. Dominic would rather not risk another close call with the so-called "friendlies", and so he motioned to Miles that they needed to distance themselves further from the fight and make a gangway to their objective.

*bratatatatatatatatat!*

"Shit! Down, down!", Miles cursed and scurried into another shipping container.

Another obstacle stopped them. This time, a PKM had started taking potshots at them, hammering their cover with an unrelenting stream of fire. Dominic briefly peeked behind the container, and immediately pinpointed that the shots were coming from a camouflaged pill box just above the entrance to the cave. The gunner was yelling as he held down the trigger, presumably thinking that he had the intruders where he wanted. But a sudden snap of air quickly changed that. The Operators recognized the sound as a sonic boom - a bullet fired from a suppressed firearm. A meaty thud came a heartbeat later, followed by a pained gasp from afar. Before they knew it, the machine gun stopped.

"Gunner neutralized.", Nøkk radioed. "I got you two covered, Bandit. Move, move!"

Dominic smiled behind his mask, thankful that their sniper was proving her worth yet again. More shots came from her position, presumably hitting other targets in the camp. And sure enough, the red markers in their goggles continued to drop like flies. It looked as though it was safe to advance.

*bratatatatatatatatat!*

"FUCK! Again!?"

One more stream of bullets came. The PKM had another person manning the trigger, someone more relentless and accurate than the previous one. This tango was vengeful too, as rather than focus on Miles and Dominic, he also shifted fire to the lady-sniper's position. Dominic let out a worried gasp, realizing their sniper was suddenly singled out. The radio recorded her panicky voice, along with the snaps of bullets hitting too close for comfort.

"Dammit! They found me!", she messaged, clearly under stress. "Bandit, I'm disengaging. Moving to a better vantage point, can you hold!?"

"Argh, make it fast _ja_!? Our cover is barely holding, over!"

Things went to shit pretty quick. Dominic had no other recourse, except to take a shot at the LMG and risk getting perforated as well. He looked for a small hole in the metal shell he was hiding behind. He raised his MP7 and aimed into its holographic sight, the sound-suppressed muzzle pointed at the enemy position. But just before he could pull the trigger, a grappling hook suddenly shot out from another angle, carrying a lone woman with it. The rope latched into the gun emplacement's exterior, then pulled up like a zipline, allowing her to bring her silenced shotgun to bear. She kicked the tango off his perch the moment she landed, sending him screaming and tumbling into the ground. Another man climbed up with her, but he didn't look like an enemy. Seeing their flashing strobes through his goggles was more than enough for the German to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Amaru here, we've neutralized the turret!", she radioed while waving at her teammates' direction. "Ready for vertical entry above the 'X', over."

"Roger that! Thanks for the assist!", Miles replied.

The two men continued the advance, while their friends got into position. Gunfire still rang between the rebels and the mercs; the distraction had served its purpose. It was time to enter the lion's den.

Predictably, the cave entrance was shut tight by a metal door when Dominic happened upon it. His first instinct was to kick it down, but a place so valuable to the APP could also be booby-trapped. He signaled to Miles to do his thing, which he responded to by pulling out a T13 grenade from his chest rig and taking the pin out. The round, squishy-looking sphere looked like a toy, but it packed enough of a wallop to punch a massive hole into almost any surface.

"Impact out!"

*BOOM!*

The door was blown in, sending sparks and smoke inside, hampering visibility as well. But the goggles helped the Operators find their way in. Immediately beyond the threshold, several armed rebels came into their view, coughing and reeling from the blast that knocked them into the ground. Miles yelled at them in Spanish to lay down their arms: an offer they promptly refused. They were quickly put down by brief bursts from the silenced SMGs. After that, he and Dominic pressed on to their objective, using the imaging goggles to amplify the ambient light and help them see clearer in the dark. Soon enough, they linked up with Amaru and Goyo, who entered the cave from another direction, their guns were also raised. Nods were exchanged as Miles led the way into the dim labyrinth.

They came across another set of metal doors - large and reinforced, illuminated by chem-lights. The same instinct came before, but this time an explosive entry seemed like the only option that the team had. An impact grenade wouldn't cut it.

"Allow me.", César volunteered.

He knelt down and took off his backpack, then pulled out what looked like an explosive device, shaped like a gas can. Dominic recognized it as one of Jordan Trace's handiworks, meant to give the bad guys a "fiery surprise". But in a pinch, the device could be used as a breaching tool, with enough literal firepower to obliterate any sizable obstacle. César showed off his technical expertise by removing individual explosive blocks from the device and rewiring the whole thing, presumably the dampen the blast and minimize collateral damage. Then, he placed it onto the metal doors, in-between a piece of sheet metal lying about that would serve as a "kicker". Finally, he signaled his colleagues to get to a safe distance, which they heeded without hesitation. It was quite easy for everyone to be on the same page like this.

The moment of truth. César aimed his Vector, with his trigger-finger ready to pull.

"Fire in the hole."

*BOOOOM!*

The explosion was louder this time around, strong enough to send ripples and dust throughout the cave. Dominic grimaced behind his balaclava, as his ears rang despite the ear protection he was wearing. Nonetheless, the incendiary device worked like a charm, leaving behind a huge gaping, scorched hole and a bent heavy-duty bolt where the metal doors used to be. Anyone standing behind that would've been turned into mush. A quick peek into the other room revealed no other hostile presence, which told Dominic that it was safe to take point. He kept his MP7 raised and his eyes glued into the imaging goggles in case something was amiss. He entered with haste, with César close behind.

"Clear right!"

"Clear left!"

The warehouse was a mess: papers strewn about, boxes smashed and turned over. Some of them had been charred, though nothing indicated the explosive was responsible. Dominic investigated further. There was a musky scent of gunpowder, burnt fuses… and lighter fuel. He followed the smell, past overturned containers and boxes, while the rest searched the spacious vault for anything important. He saw a black puddle from a corner, demanding his attention. His Mexican colleague followed from behind with his gun raised…

"_Mierda_.", he cursed.

There was a corpse, flat on its belly. A chubby male, tan-skinned, with a collared shirt and camouflaged trousers. He looked like in his sixties, if the greys on his black mullet were any indication. There was a bloody hole on the base of his skull. César knelt and pushed the body over, revealing a face frozen in a pained gasp. He seemed to have recognized this poor bastard's mug.

"_Tia_. You need to see this!"

Amaru hurried to him without delay, clutching her firearm. She made a similar reaction when he saw the dead man's visage.

"…Carlos Rojas?"

"Who?", Dominic asked her.

"Smuggler. One of South America's Most Wanted… Dammit, I should've known he's working with the rebels!"

The name didn't register in Dominic's mental list of known international criminals. Rather, he was more concerned about the pile of papers and records near the corpse. They were tossed into a box, haphazardly by the looks of it, and this old man was about to burn them all judging from the leaking cigarette lighter beside his hand. An unlucky bullet to the skull put an abrupt end to his plan. Where it came from was a mystery, as the vault wasn't riddled by bullet holes.

Dominic knelt down and looked at the documents on the ground. So many of them were written in different languages, only half of which he understood. These ones, however, had names he did recognize: the aspiring _Los Hijos del Sueño_ cartel, the old Baader–Meinhof Gang, and the defunct America's True Patriots. It would appear that Rojas's friends were also in cahoots with all manner of unsavory folk, from the Seventies up to the present day. Another set of papers came into view, which themselves looked more like company brochures, belonged to Holdstadt AG: the once-powerful European enterprise, ruined by the Aarhus Bombing not too long ago. Were the Reds also involved in that plot?

More questions popped up. But for now, there's nothing more that could be gleamed from these files.

"What do you make of this? Stray fire?", César asked, referring to the hole on Rojas's head. "Looks like a rifle killed him."

"Don't know. Doesn't matter now.", Dominic replied, not turning his head.

He picked up the documents and stashed them into his pack. He'd rather leave this wretched cave as soon as possible, rather than play mental gymnastics. He stood up post haste, glancing at Castle who was also stashing his bag with whatever piece of intelligence he could retrieve. The rest of the vault's contents were too badly ruined to be of use. Dominic led the way out as soon as they were done.

The battle with the Reds was nearing its close.

"Castle to all Nighthaven Callsigns. Objective complete. Say again, objective complete. We're comin' out of the cave entrance; four pax total. Watch your fire, over."

…

The action was over in less than an hour. Finally, Dominic could get his smoke break.

His nostrils were filled with all manner of scents, both familiar and foreign. Cordite, motor oil, cinders, muck, and of course blood. The night sky roared with the sound of rotor blades as more Nighthaven helicopters started to arrive. On the ground, there was about a dozen rebels, flat on their asses with their hands tied, all under the scornful gaze of Rainbow's mercenary friends. 'Friends'. The word rang hollow in Dominic's head, remembering how these gung-ho thugs almost turned him into mincemeat. He ignored their hand waves, and instead turned his attention to the woman who saved his sorry hide, and who was ultimately responsible for this mission in the first place.

"Nøkk. Find anything useful?", he asked right after a puff.

The lady-sniper was kneeling, rummaging through the pile of papers on her lap, basically everything that could be salvaged from the rebels' vault. Some papers she cast aside, others she tucked into her right arm. She didn't bother to remove the mesh veil over her head, help her see better. Though the need for anonymity was understandable given the presence of so many strangers in her midst - such was the life of a NATO Covert Agent.

"Bingo!", she exclaimed and stood up.

Dominic approached her, who in turn handed him several papers. He flicked away the cigarette from his lips as a courtesy. He then read through the papers, and was surprised at their contents.

"Here…", Nøkk went on, tracing a finger at one of them. "…These are the same bank accounts Earth's Hope used."

"And Orson Rose. The same numbers we saw in Morocco.", the German added.

"_Ja_. Nothing that can help us find the mastermind, though - who he is, or where – but we do have another lead."

Dominic continued to read through the papers…

…

"Pirates?"

As it turned out, the Reds were due to deliver contraband to the infamous 'Ten-Eighties' operating in the Indian Ocean. A Somali-run outfit, ruthless and menacing to boot. The group had crossed paths with GSG 9 and their foreign counterparts before, so seeing the name pop out in the rebels' documents should not be surprising. Orson was a similar story: a freelancer for terrorists as gleamed from Rainbow's intelligence efforts. It made sense for these criminals to band together, as the pirates had a lot of ships and smuggling routes at their disposal.

Smuggling. Right then and there, a larger picture started to emerge in Dominic's head. The armed traffickers in Morocco, the APP, the Ten-Eighties, and Rose himself: they seemed to be comprising a larger supply network that Earth's Hope employed to launch its attack on Denmark. Probably the same one they used to send their people in America to kill Senator Darcy. Where would they be headed next? A support system this large and complex would've taken years to establish and run, something that could only be done with the backing of some powerful individual or cabal. But who? Dominic felt a sense of relief, finally peeking between the curtains where their enemy was hiding. But at the same time, he started to wonder if the coming days for Rainbow would just be them playing whack-a-mole on every coterie of scumbags the world had to offer.

"No doubt about it. These guys are working for someone powerful. And they have comrades in other places too…"

At the very least, this incursion into the Amazon had not been a wasted trip after all.

"…We'll run these numbers, find the pirates and take them out, _then_ we'll see who else ends up on our hit list."

"*sigh* I really hope the Americans could still help us.", Nøkk voiced her disappointment. "We need their resources to track every lead. Especially _this_ bastard."

"Well, we can't do anything about that anymore, can we? We're on our own."

The woman sighed and nodded, realizing the figurative brick wall before the Team. Just then, Miles approached them hauling a huge duffel bag. He seemed relieved that the mission was over.

"Bag 'em and tag 'em, fellas; our ride is here. We'll let Valkyrie and the others worry about these."

"_Jawohl_.", Dominic nodded.

Rotor blades chopped from the distance, as an unarmed Nighthaven Kiowa prepared to land in the camp's southern clearing. And with that, the three Operators started to make their way towards the aircraft, ignoring the sights and sounds around them.

"Hey! HEY!", someone suddenly shouted.

There was a commotion. A few meters behind him, Dominic saw Amaru in an altercation with one of the masked mercenaries, who was hauling a black bodybag together with another mate. César was trying to restrain her, but to no avail. At that moment, priorities shifted and a switch flipped in the Operators' heads, compelling them to hurry towards their comrades' side.

"HEY! Knock it off!", Miles yelled. "What's the meaning of this?!"

"The Russian government has a hundred-million-ruble bounty on Mr. Rojas.", a woman spoke from afar. "My men will need his body to claim it."

Dominic recognized it as the same voice he had been hearing over the comms. When he turned around, he saw a woman of dark complexion, wearing a dark blue combat garb that exposed her muscled arms and a matching bandana on her noggin. Her right shoulder carried a small bandolier of rifle cartridges. Across her arms was a custom-made sniper rifle fitted with an underslung grenade launcher - tricked out differently from Nøkk's Sako TRG. Her aura was both commanding and stubborn, matching the prestige of her _nom de guerre_.

"You fuckin' serious, Kali?"

"No, he should go to Policía Nacional!", Amaru protested. "This bastard has been causing us grief for decades; they deserve to know we got him!"

"Take it up with your boss.", the female mercenary smiled.

_Really? We're fighting over a corpse?_

Dominic didn't like where this scene was headed to, same as Miles. Carlos Rojas, or whatever shit he had done, was none of his concern. But he knew his loyalties when it came to Rainbow, and right now he saw that they were about to squabble over something worth less than the mud of the Amazon. And any keen eye would know that he and his friends were outnumbered by at least three to one. With guns. It would only take a single idiot with an itchy trigger-finger to turn this whole sideshow into an unfortunate bloodbath.

"Amaru, let it go.", he grabbed her shoulder, then leaned a bit into her ear. "We didn't come down here for him. Let it go."

The woman looked at him dejectedly, then relented. Kali was more than amused as her men hauled the body bag away.

"See? Business is a pleasure if we all just get along."

"_Jódete_." ("Fuck you.")

Amaru left in a huff, perhaps to find a place to cool her head, while César followed her. The merc snickered to herself, then signaled her men to move out. Seeing these heavily-armed guys follow her without question nor protest was quite curious to behold; she likely spent a great deal of time in the trenches with them. Tonight's incursion in the Amazon was clearly more than just another paycheck. Dominic made a mental note to be cautious around her when they meet again in England. He kept his eyes trained as she walked off, resting the sniper rifle across her shoulders.

On a closer look, the barrel of the gun was still smoking. Another curious sight.

"There's something… different about her.", Nøkk whispered over the radio. Nobody else needed to know about her comment. "Looks like trouble. I hate it."

"You and me both.", Dominic replied in similar fashion.

Of course, Miles was having none of that small talk.

"Keep the intel close, Nøkk. We have a lot of shit to catalog back in Hereford."

"Roger that. I could use a day-off though."

Dominic wouldn't say no to that either, after what happened tonight. They all just wanted to go home. He and his partners resumed their walk to the helicopter, clutching bags of various sizes, not knowing if their work would bear much fruit. At the very least, someone had to be told about the good news, as the search for one named terrorist had just gotten more interesting.

"Six-Actual, this is Castle. Do you read?"

…

* * *

Briefing Hall, Hereford Base, England  
At the same time

…

The general meeting had been going on for hours now. Ethan Mallory jotted down every piece of information that came out of Harry's mouth and his widescreen, but suffice to say his heart wasn't all into it. So many thoughts bombarded his head, no thanks to current events. What happened last night definitely didn't help improve his concentration either. He slept well, one of the best in ages in fact, but he still had a "hangover" to contend with, one that didn't involve alcohol at all.

He constantly switched his attention from his notebook, then to the screen in front of him. Harry was still doing his video call with Miles over a secure channel, who looked like he was in the middle of a jungle at night, but their conversation didn't really interest Ethan. He overheard words like 'Peru', 'operation', 'Grim Sky' and 'Nighthaven', but they simply went out of the other ear. All he thought about was his new mission: his impending return to America to search for one Emily Jacobsen, no doubt languishing at some CIA 'black site' as a prisoner. He needed to find her, get answers.

Not everyone in the Team knew he was due to leave today.

"…Thank you, Mister Campbell. Excellent work!", Harry finished his call on the screen. "We cannot wait to have you all back in Hereford."

"Roger wilco, Harry. Signing off."

The video feed then went to black. A few button presses on the remote, and the meeting returned to where everyone left it.

"Right. Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you have not forgotten the work ahead of us…"

All eyes went forward, focused on two words that Harry had been rambling on for hours now. 'The Program'.

There was total silence in the room. It was quite surreal, seeing dozens upon dozens of black-clad ex-Spec Ops, police, and PMCs all tuned in to the scrawny-looking guy in front of them. A folder beside Ethan's notebook referred to the day's important topic: a training-slash-team-building exercise designed to showcase Rainbow's capabilities to the powers that be. Stuck in-between his folder were several papers that included a situationer, a security clearance form, an enlistment form, and, curiously, a tourist brochure. The last one was a clear blue paper filled with welcoming images of wondrous Mother Nature. Written in fine script was the name of the destination: Ilia, Greece.

"…I know many of you still have misgivings about our situation. But rest assured these next few weeks have a purpose. Remind our patrons that we can fulfill our mandate."

"A contest for the UN's pleasure?", Eliza Cohen blurted out.

"In a sense, Ash. Though I prefer to call it a 'demonstration', assuming the retrofits are going along well…?"

"We'll be done by tomorrow, Harry.", Dr. Elena "Mira" Álvarez replied. "We just need to tweak the new suits, as well as the training ammo."

Murmurs and whispers briefly went throughout the room. Nearly everyone was intrigued or anxious about their Director's sudden proposition. But if there was anyone really worth mentioning, it would be the ones seated at the room's front row. Ethan hadn't seen them before. One was a lithe, pale-skinned woman in a formal suit, whose bleach-white bobcut hair instantly stood out. The other was a tan-skinned man of hulking proportions, whose sleeveless shirt showcased the bulging muscles of his arms. There were other people of note, but this duo caught Ethan's wandering gaze first. Harry hadn't told him anything about them. Given his next assignment, though, perhaps it would be better to leave him out of the loop.

His eyes then scanned for a familiar face. Emma. The 'training ammo' was her job in Rainbow's R&D Labs, so it was interesting to gauge her reaction. She was seated two or three rows away from him, where she was murmuring to Gilles Touré and Julien Nizan, her seatmates, presumably in their own tongue. Oddly, they were later sharing laughs amongst themselves.

"Please review the folders and files on your desks.", Harry continued. "You will receive embarkation details tomorrow, 0800 hours. That is all…"

The Operators stood from their seats, ready to leave. Their boss turned around for one final message.

"…Oh and, uh, don't forget to give our new colleagues a proper welcome, yeah? They've come a long way to experience Rainbow's… hospitality."

The white-haired girl gasped in surprise, while her male colleague remained quiet as before. Not long after that, people started to form around them, as a sort of impromptu meet-and-greet, with handshakes and smiles. They had no idea of the hazing they would go through in the next few hours.

Unfortunately, none of this was Ethan's concern anymore. He looked at his watch and was startled to realize he only had less than an hour left before he could go about his other business. Sighing to himself, he grabbed the notebook and folder on his desk and stood up from his seat. He could probably stash them inside his carry luggage; he had already spent the greater part of the morning packing his things. His locker in the armory was still intact. The Program, whatever the heck it was, would most likely not involve him, assuming his mission in America would occupy most of his time. As to why Harry would induct Rainbow into a combat tournament when the world was teetering to the edge of war, he could not say.

He stopped by the door to the Briefing Hall, and peered out to a window showcasing the lush, tranquil greens of Hereford Base. He saw the old courtyard beyond Building E, flanked by Spitfire planes that Marius restored some time ago. He saw the famous clock tower in the distance, where Baker would sometimes stroll in his lonesome. There was scarcely any soul outside, save for the grey-clad guards from the Puissance Group making their rounds. Right then and there, Ethan felt everything sink in. His mission, his duty, would tear him away from this place, for God knows how long.

…

"Ethan!"

A spirited female voice stopped him dead in his tracks. His heart skipped a beat, unprepared. When he turned around, he was face to face with Emma, her brown hair tied to a bun. The smile on her freckled face beamed at him, casting aside anything troubling him for a moment. He tried his best to return the favor to her.

"Oh. Hi."

"Hi! I, uhh…", she paused, then cleared her throat.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah. Head's still a swirl, but I'm managing…"

She briefly turned to the side. Ethan could've sworn her face had a tinge of pink, but he pretended not to notice it. It could be she had drunk something strong again today - last night's pub crawl had already proven the antics this cheerful and smart young woman was capable of.

…

"…Last night, in my room…", she spoke after a long pause. "Did we-?"

"Did what?", he tilted his head slightly.

"Argh, you know what I mean!"

His eyes narrowed, rather unimpressed by her brief lapse of reasoning. Knowing her state that night, did she really thought he'd go that far?

"Ugh… No! No we didn't."

She blinked twice. The answer surprised her, which Ethan found a bit odd. The alcohol might have mucked her memory, but she should've known that answer to that question when she woke up this morning. The sudden worry on her face evaporated nonetheless.

"Oh, that's good. Hehe!", she giggled at the lame answer. "Uh… For a minute there, I thought I needed to go to Gustave for a… umm…"

"…A what?", he raised an eyebrow.

"N-Not important. What happened exactly?", she changed the subject. "I remember you closing the door-"

"*sigh* I was about to leave, actually. But you gave me that look, begged me to stay. Guess you needed someone to chat with."

"D-Did I?"

"Mmhm. Gave you a glass of water, then you rambled about Harry, Taina, this Program-shit, your sister in Paris…"

"Oh."

Ethan made sure to only mention the important details. Better that than to remind her of the kind of ruckus she did in town last night. Barfing on Taina's clothes, then almost picking a fight with her would've made that night more memorable for the wrong reasons. No, there were other matters she should focus on, from one comrade to another.

"…You also kept talking about Madison… The _real_ one, not your pet AI."

In that instant, she froze. It was as if he had tugged on a nerve. Maybe he shouldn't have. A year had already passed since Madison Saint-Claire died in Bartlett University, but Emma had never gotten over it. Who could blame her, she also had a younger sister herself? All those long hours in the R&D Lab, all the endless research about AI and stuff, all the desperate attempts for fleeting joy… they were her way of forgetting, moving on.

The space between them suddenly felt uncomfortable, with Ethan and Emma slightly turning their eyes away from each other. Madison had left a lasting mark on the woman, for better or for worse, but it also brought a sense of kinship with him as well. Madison was one of Emily's many victims, a list of poor people who died thanks to her treason. This was a long list that included Gabriel DeWynne, Omar Guerrero, Adam Kipper, and many others. Even now, Ethan still struggled with the fact that he willingly fell in love with the woman who used him, tortured him, and almost brought his country to its knees. Sooner or later, he would need to reconcile with that fact. At the very least, he could find comfort in knowing he wasn't the only one who suffered.

"Look, if I were you I'd schedule a session with Harry.", he continued. "Ain't nothing wrong with seeing a shrink. Most of us-"

"Twitch! Come here! Iana wants to meet you!", Elena suddenly called out.

Emma turned around, seeing the Spanish scientist wave at her with the white-haired chick by her side. Of course, the subordinate had no choice but to wave back and comply.

"S-Sorry. Catch you later."

She scampered off in a hurry, chatting with the other girls, smiling all the way. Whether her desire to meet the new recruit was genuine or another masquerade was anybody's guess. Ethan sighed, realizing what little progress he had made. But perhaps it was for the best; overcoming what they both went through should be taken one day at a time_._ He would know. He'd been there.

"Settling your affairs, aren't you?", Harry walked up behind him.

_Ah, God..._

"Working on it.", Ethan replied, mildly annoyed.

"Hmm. Speaking of 'work'… Eliza said she will handle the weapons drills while you're gone. Mike will run the Kill House scenarios as always… The recruits will be fine."

"Uh-huh."

Harry joined to stand beside him, outside of the Briefing Hall's doors. Just his luck - he wanted the meeting to be done so he could gather his thoughts. Apparently, that would be done at another time, seeing as his superior decided to chat with him, no doubt with final instructions and some well-wishing to impart. It was the same with Emily, back when she was still an honest-to-God Case Officer. It was a bit awkward then, and it was sure as hell awkward now. For the sake of decorum, however, Ethan let it slide. For a moment, he and Harry watched on as the men and women of their little circus huddled around the new arrivals, bantering with them. It felt like high school all over again, much to the Delta sniper's chagrin. But he also couldn't help but smile.

"Use this to communicate with us.", Harry handed a smartphone to him, speaking softly. "It's code-locked, with a secure channel."

"Thanks."

"Meghan will be your handler, but otherwise you'll be on your own. Ring her up after you've landed in Newark."

Ethan nodded and stuck device into his back pocket. It was here when he realized that his little undercover work had truly began.

Brass tacks: his mission would be to find and interrogate Emily Jacobsen, wherever she was imprisoned in. Iowa was the first port of call, as that was what the Central Intelligence Agency had told Director Arnot when Emily was transferred to their custody a year ago. As a former operative of their Special Activities Division, Ethan had an idea where to look. But knowing how the CIA would handle traitors from their ranks, however, it was also possible Emily was already dead. Or worse.

Regardless, he needed to know everything about the White Masks. About Earth's Hope. About the stolen uranium in Australia and Kazakhstan. About all these attacks in Europe and America, and these escapades to antagonize the Russians. Most important of all, he needed to find the mastermind behind this whole operation, in whatever shithole he was cowering. The little girl who escaped those traffickers in Morocco, Agnes Kipper, had already given Rainbow a brief description of the guy: an aging white geezer with glasses. Ethan only needed to learn more from Emily, or whoever else who could lead him to the truth. And all of this, set in the backdrop of a bubbling conflict between the White House and the Kremlin, with the people in suits playing war games. The clock was ticking.

As he was about to walk away, Ethan heard Taina Pereira speak out. She was face-to-face with Emma, arms crossed. It looked like they still had some beef with each other. Or so he thought.

"Alright… I forgive you.", the Brazilian muttered. "Part of me still wants to stab your neck, though."

"Hahaha! That's, uh… That's progress I guess?"

Hearty laughter broke out in the room, as childish as it sounded. It was surreal to see these hardened soldiers and cops let their silly side show. But that was what made this outfit unique. That was what comrades, true companions, would do to each other. And Ethan was proud to be part of this group.

He would miss them.

"No need for goodbyes, mate.", Harry tapped his shoulder. "You'll be back before they know it."

Once again, the words fell on deaf ears. Ethan knew that he was about to cross a turning point, and he was incensed that his boss hadn't realize it yet.

"I should get to the runway; the plane's leaving soon… Give 'em my regards?"

"Consider it done."

…

* * *

Terminal Two, Heathrow International Airport  
The following day

0435 hours

…

Privately chartered jets: they're but one of the many perks a senior executive of a prestigious private security firm could enjoy. It's more of a practicality than a luxury though, as the humdrum day-to-day of an Operations Chief often involved meetings with clients anywhere in the world. This was particularly true for Pyotr "Peter" Andreyevitch Kovalenko, who barely had enough sleep since his visit to the Puissance Group's London HQ earlier today. Well, _yesterday_ to be more precise, as it was already four hours past midnight. He only had a hot shower and a light breakfast since then. The sun had not risen, yet he was already in Heathrow awaiting his next flight. Somewhere in America, a certain someone was likely slumbering in peace.

He sipped on a steaming cup of cappuccino at a trendy café in Terminal Two, enjoying the soft music. The place was certainly not on par with Kafe Dostoyevsky, but it was good enough for transcontinental pit stops. He kept himself busy by reading an audit report, occasionally glancing at his two bodyguards who were sitting at a table across his - a sign of his importance to the PMC's hierarchy. He looked quite dapper in his suit-and-tie and his freshly laundered slacks, made him look respectable for a man nearing the end of his prime. He needed to blend in anyway, lest somebody from the corporate ranks would grow suspicious of him. As they should.

Serving his country and making a ton of money while he's at it. Truly, that young, scrawny Soviet paratrooper in Afghanistan had come a long way.

"Boss. It's time to go.", one of his bodyguards approached him, a finger in his earpiece. "The jet's ready."

"Good. Took them long enough.", he replied.

Peter finished his coffee and licked his lips. As he grabbed his briefcase from the table, his aged eyes caught an interesting sight.

Walking past the cafe was what looked like a military entourage: six men in total, two of whom were wearing US Navy dress blues, while the rest had suits. They all had stern and cold expressions, and each of them were carrying briefcases. Quite a peculiar group of people to find in Heathrow, at this ungodly hour no less, yet nobody around them seemed to care. Nobody, except for Peter. He quickly looked away and walked the opposite direction, lest one of the soldiers noticed him gawking at them. Along the way, his instincts ran rampant with speculation, being the Cold Warrior he once was. He knew that that group didn't come to London by accident; they were probably headed to the NATO base in Hamburg, taking the scenic route to the mainland in order to attract less attention from the FSB's spies. Which he was.

And so it would appear that the White House had finally made a move, albeit a small one. The Kremlin would need to learn about this development as soon as possible.

For now, however, he was to play the part of the passenger: a high-value individual from a renowned PMC. Peter and his men made their way out of the Terminal's holding area to meet with the head of security at his office. A few words were exchanged and a few forms were duly accomplished, after which they were escorted to an empty boarding gate. While Peter got his VIP ticket crosschecked by a lovely stewardess, he saw his jet taxi out of the hangar outside, all fueled up and ready to go for the trip back to Moscow. He smiled at the young lady after she was done, and soon he was off to the boarding bridge. The jet was a chrome-white Cessna Longitude, small but cozy, befitting a man of his stature.

He was greeted by another stewardess, this time bearing a unique sigil pinned to her blouse. The emblem was that of a bucking horse atop a globe: the emblem of the Puissance Group.

"Good morning, Chief.", she smiled. "There's a bottle of chilled Sauvignon delivered to your seat, as requested."

"Much obliged my dear."

Peter quickly went inside the cabin, finding his designated spot while his bodyguards sat one row ahead of him. The standard flight preparations followed, with the stewardess closing the cabin door and the pilot opening the PA to blather on about safety protocols and such. Peter, meanwhile, made himself busy by pulling out the laptop from his briefcase. He switched it on, used his log-in credentials, and promptly started a video call. As for the bottle of wine, he quickly took it out of the chiller behind his feet, uncorking it with a pop and pouring into a small glass. He motioned to his bodyguards if they wanted to share with him, but they politely refused.

The taste was the extra kick he just needed. It would take more than a cup of coffee to get him in the mood for a dialogue.

*Beep, beep, beep*

"Pete…?"

The laptop screen showed a middle-aged black woman with disheveled hair and house clothes. It seemed that she was getting ready to bed, but she still kept her smartphone on. Moscow was the last time they met face-to-face, and the Americans were evacuating their diplomats from one of the safest places in Russia. This woman didn't even explain to him the cause of their rude departure.

"Aurelia.", he spoke in a clear, unaccented voice. "Did I call you at a bad time?"

"N-No… Not at all."

Peter had forgotten it was around eleven o'clock in the evening from where she was. But she insisted on taking this call.

"Oh. In that case let's chat, old friend. It's about that favor you asked me last week."

"Orson Rose?"

"Who else? I just came back from the audit at our London office.", he took a sip from his wine glass. "Managed to get a hold of Mr. Rose's old files; I've already sent them to your inbox."

In response, Aurelia made her way to a desk, booted up her laptop. Peter waited in bated breath, quietly praying that Mr. Arnot would not see his wife making a private vid-call and get funny ideas about them. It was indeed funny, though, for a Russian agent like Peter to be talking with a high-level official at the US Department of State. Any peeping tom or eavesdropper would call this 'treason'. And if this was the Cold War, the price for either of them would be a bullet to the head.

But such was this brave new world they're in now. The men and women of the last millennium were becoming irrelevant, dying like flies. Leonard Fausse, the populist revolutionary who formed America's True Patriots with the Kremlin's blessing, was now a rotted corpse. As did his predecessor, Charles Jacobsen, who tried to stir trouble with his fellow Vietnam veterans, only to become a government-man himself and die under mysterious circumstances. And then there was Carlos Rojas, the rogue smuggler whom the KGB employed in the old days, killed at a raid in the Amazon by government forces yesterday. Worse people had since taken their place. People like Orson Rose. Old enemies now needed to work together to keep the world from total annihilation.

"You were right about him. Shady past, shadier friends…", Peter resumed while Aurelia fumbled with her computer. "…It's a wonder why any of this didn't catch the Board's attention."

The old guard in him wanted to confront her about the American soldiers he saw in Heathrow. Their presence seemed to be a clear violation of the uneasy peace. But the coaxing could be saved for later, as leverage perhaps. Besides, it was only fitting that he would interrogate her this time, after their last encounter. Strictly business, of course.

…

"Oh my God!", the woman exclaimed at what she saw on her screen. "Where the hell did you get…?"

"Ah, that was unexpected…", Peter smiled. "…I suppose you didn't know Rose used to work _for you_ too?"

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **This is a combination of two chapters that I had in the pipeline; I merged them together because the chapter would feel quite lacking otherwise. For anyone who doesn't know, I portrayed Nøkk as a sniper here because that's literally what she trained for (among other things) according to her backstory. I think Ubisoft wrote her to be some sort of enigmatic super-spy/soldier, which for me makes her place in the meta right now quite ironic. She hasn't had her HEL Device here because Mira had not yet given it to her.

Also, I hope this chapter cleared up what happened between Ethan and Emma in the previous one. I appreciate everyone's feedback on that, but I think leaving them like this is the best way to develop their relationship.


	9. Chapter 8 - Welcome Home

**.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight - "Welcome Home"**

* * *

…

There were a few seconds of pause, as Aurelia Arnot spent a great deal of time looking at her monitor, digesting the email's contents. From the perspective of one Pyotr Andreyevitch Kovalenko, it looked like she was totally unprepared for the bombshell he just dropped. And he savored every minute of it. It was a small, pathetic victory over another Cold Warrior, but a victory nonetheless.

"I… I cannot believe this."

"Before he joined us, Rose worked with a CIA "outreach program" in Iraq.", Peter gave her the short version through the video call. "His time in the Royal Engineers gave him the lay of the land, helped you track down American sympathizers to terrorists."

"…"

"I heard your government launched a similar mission more than a year ago.", he continued. "Does Operation Witch Hunt ring any bells?"

The woman gave him the sharpest of glares, conveying unspoken words across the screen. Exactly how Peter expected his old adversary from the West to react.

"You know I can't answer that…", she replied.

Peter mocked her with a condescending smile. She probably didn't think that the Federal Security Service knew a lot about that one mission in the Middle East that started this whole mess. However, he didn't let the woman know how her current feelings mirrored his own. "Flabbergasted" would be an understatement to describe his reaction when he read Orson Rose's personnel files for the first time. Peter learned a lot more from the London audit than he wanted to let on: things about the Puissance Group that the Americans shouldn't know. Right now, though, it was best to keep his cards close to his chest.

He looked at the screen of his mobile device. What Aurelia did next on her computer was left for the elderly spy to guess about, but he watched on as Aurelia typed into the keyboard with fast finger-strokes. It looked as though she made a copy of the files he sent to her, then deleted the original from her machine at the same time. A smart move to save her own skin. Hopefully, she had the same prudence to encrypt her own phone as well.

"…As much as I want to believe your report, I'm gonna have to verify this with Langley. It's too suspect."

"*chuckles* What? I only did what you asked me to."

"I need to be sure this ain't another bait-and-switch from your FSB friends.", she continued. "No offence, of course."

"Tsk, tsk. You wound me, my dear. Didn't I promise you that I will not involve them?"

"Yes you did. But you also know _we_ don't have time to play spy games with Moscow right now. I'm sure someone in the Kremlin will want to take advantage of that."

Peter finally had Aurelia a bit unnerved. He relished the small win with a sip of Sauvignon from his glass and a shit-eating grin across his face. His bodyguards seated in front of him, assuming they were paying any attention at all, would probably be perplexed by how their boss was behaving right now. Luckily, they had more mundane things to worry about, like watching for anything suspicious as the private jet they were riding on started to taxi out of the hangar and into the runway. Each rattle and shake of the fuselage, every hiss from the engine, they were all mentally-scrutinized as a precaution. Nobody needed an unwelcome surprise to ruin the moment.

The old man looked away from his video conversation, glanced to his side and peered out of the sandwiched, glass window. The darkness only showed him Heathrow's silhouette and the faint flickers of runway marker lights for illumination; the temptation to sleep rang that much stronger. Even without looking at his watch, he could tell it was only a few scant minutes, more or less, before 0500 hours. He would arrive in Moscow just in time for brunch - more than enough time to catch some shuteye, or to engage in more wily-banter with his American rival. The choice between the two was painfully obvious.

"You're finally embracing your job as the White House's toady, huh?", he taunted her. "Did State Department make you soft? Not keen on disproving "the myth of American supremacy" anymore?"

Aurelia's expression turned into something more serious. She was standing her ground, raring to fight back in this little duel of words. It was about to get interesting.

"The _truth_ is that there're plenty of people in DC itching to put our strength to the test right now. I'd choose my next words carefully, if I were you."

"How about: 'truth is the first casualty in war'?"

"Are we _at war_ with each other? Right at this minute?"

"You tell me.", he retorted. "You already have your Supercarrier in the Baltic."

To his dismay, the woman remained tight-lipped. Peter was hoping she would let something slip after he pushed her buttons, but alas, there was no witty remark from her. Nor anything he could perceive as a weakness to exploit. Silence endured for a short while until Peter heard the pilot announced to the cabin crew to prepare for take-off. The announcement was audible enough over the phone.

"Are you in a jet?", the woman abruptly changed the subject. "Where are you headed?"

"Home, of course.", Peter grinned. His statement could mean a lot of things, hoping to befuddle her. "Excuse me, Aurelia. I'll have to put you on hold."

*click*

Standard procedures had to be followed: no outgoing calls or signals, lest they mucked up the aircraft's flight instruments. The old man closed the monitor on his portable device, then made sure he was buckled up for the inevitable rush of speed. The engines of the Cessna slowly revved up until they were nearly roaring. The wheels rolled with growing pace, gaining momentum like a coiled spring. The next instant, a quick jolt threw Peter back a bit on his seat as he felt his stomach sink, the plane rising into the heavens. He could feel his light breakfast and sips of wine doing wonders on his stomach. Soon enough, he and his little entourage were airborne, soaring above London and headed east.

Another quick message from the pilot confirmed that it was now safe to resume business. Peter flicked open his portable device again and swiped across the screen, thankful that Aurelia didn't leave him hanging.

"Right. Where were we? …Ah yes. Mr. Rose…"

The woman said nothing in return. It was a good sign.

"…What are you going to do with this information?"

"I still have to validate it, old friend.", she frowned, then turned to her side. "One more CIA asset-turned terrorist… It's though as if Freedom Day hasn't taught us anything."

"Ehh, I'll worry about that later if I was in your shoes. Better start thinking of a good story for your boss on how you got those files from us."

Aurelia laughed back, with Peter responding in kind to put her even more at ease. He took another sip from his wine glass, savoring the flavor, then glanced at the papers stacked beside his device. The were still bits from the audit reports he couldn't digest. He angrily clenched his right hand into a fist, away from the woman's point of view, while his face suggested otherwise. Part of him wished he never saw them, as they opened his eyes to certain truths that he didn't expect. Things like backroom deals the Puissance Group had made that even _he_ wasn't aware of. Deals with the Minnesota-based Ithaca construction company, who were on a spree of hostile takeovers in Europe. He still couldn't wrap his little head around the reasoning behind them; all the more it was prudent for him to report back to Moscow as soon as possible.

"What do you want in return?", she asked.

"Same as the last time we've met. I'll dine easier once I know your people are moving out of Hamburg."

"*sigh* Pete, it's not that simple. The President already made commitments to the Fehmarn base. But de-escalation is in the cards if-"

He suddenly clenched his fists, an outburst of emotion he failed to contain.

"De-escalation? I saw one of your Command attaches in Heathrow a few minutes ago. Do not play with me, Aurelia!"

He didn't forget about the act of subterfuge the Americans pulled tonight. Those men he saw at Heathrow earlier were clearly headed to somewhere important and covert. Presumably to the USS John P. Ryan currently docked at the Joint Baltic Command Base. And as a veteran of espionage himself, Peter could also make an educated guess as to what those soldiers had in their briefcases. Yet despite his hunches, he still wanted to hear the truth from the horse's mouth, as courtesy and mutual respect. Aurelia was certainly in the loop of whatever plans the White House was making.

…

"W-What?"

Peter was startled, not knowing that _this_ was the reaction Aurelia would give him.

"What do you mean 'what'? You don't know?"

"I heard rumblings of a Navy exercise, unless…", she frantically explained. Glancing to her side, she soon bore a face of worry. "…No. It can't be. The Pentagon isn't that stupid to risk it!"

Peter leaned back on his seat, deeply concerned. Suddenly, the wine glass beside him was no longer inviting. Her voice carried genuine honesty: a bad omen given the context. As much as he wanted to doubt her, Peter felt there was something more sinister in play.

"Someone's moving the pieces when you're not looking? It's like Beirut all over again."

"What? Say that again Pete?"

"I said, it's like what happened in Beirut."

"I can't hear your *static* …someth- *static* Peter?"

He raised an eyebrow, confused. Within seconds his screen started to show lines of static around the edges. The connection was starting to fail.

"What in the name- You're breaking up. Aurelia?"

The audio began to garble, shifting in pitch until it was unrecognizable. Listening to his primitive instincts, Peter tapped his device with more fingers, a bit of percussive maintenance. No such luck. Rather than fix itself, his screen instead started to fade in and out. He could see Aurelia opening her mouth, as though she was frantically speaking to him, presumably seeing the same interference on her end.

And then it went black.

"_Chyort! _(Shit!)", Peter dropped a fist on his chair's armrest.

"Something wrong, boss?", one of his bodyguards turned around.

"*sigh* No, I'm fine. Bad reception, is all."

He tried calling her again. The phone rang for seconds, but Aurelia didn't answer. A second attempt yielded the same result, while he hurried for a third one. He was getting anxious, as he went through a lot of trouble for her, stealing important documents from his erstwhile employers. Realizing his calls weren't getting through, he finally sighed in defeat. He would have to try again to call her, once he's back in Moscow. He hoped that his message had somehow gotten through - that there was more to her terrorist suspect than she realized.

_Now what?_

At the back of his mind, he still pondered why his call abruptly ended. Probably interference on his end. He thought about finishing the wine, but the mood had long since soured. Instead, his eyes wandered to the London audit report, lying beside his chair and begging him for attention - it was as though the phone call egged him to look at it again. He opened the folder and sifted through its contents once more, taking off where he left previously. The stash of documents contained reams of financial data, assets, liabilities and so on, as well as a list of current contracts that the Puissance Group had taken on for the year. Everything seemed to check out: Hereford, Moscow, and Nagoya, just to name a few. If he was looking for an error in the data, it wasn't here.

Peter propped up an elbow on the chair, resting his chin beneath a closed hand. He looked out into the night sky, quickly darting past him as the jet cruised on. He couldn't help but wonder about the last few days, with the diplomatic delegation at Kafe Dostoyevsky being a major highlight. It was a day that could've decided the fate of two powerful nations, for good or ill, if it weren't for the Americans chickening out on the last minute. And this happened under Peter's watch. He hoped to God that this mess in Hamburg wasn't at all related to Zero Protocol, whose purpose still eluded him. One thing was certain, though: his PMC was starting to get political now; too political, perhaps, for his tastes.

He needed a distraction. Putting aside his misgivings for now, he looked deeper at the audits, crunching numbers and charting graphs in his head based on the information written inside. Suddenly, he realized he missed a few key details on two particular contracts that the Board had fast-tracked for some reason. One was for Ithaca's new construction projects in Moscow. The other was the augmented security detail for the Royal Air Force Base in Herefordshire. On both contracts, Peter noticed a common thread: the jobs were assigned to recently-hired Puissance contractors, rather than the more experienced ones like those from his group. This was one hell of an oversight, in his eyes at least. There was a greater, underlying question in his head.

_Why did we take those contracts anyway?_

He chuckled to himself, realizing that he was getting too involved in this private security business. This was, after all, nothing more than a cover. His _real_ job was at home, and there's likely a mountain of paperwork waiting for him in his cushy desk. More would be added into the pile. Biggest among them were the files about Orson Rose, the British-born terrorist who worked with Puissance once upon a time. He took another gander on his profile, reinforcing his presumptions, piecing other details in his head. The son of a bitch had stronger criminal ties than Peter previously thought. Doing contract jobs with the Russian Mob, then with the extremist Earth's Hope, those were to be expected from such an unscrupulous character like Rose. But working with the CIA? Now _that_ would bring into question why the bastard worked with his mercenary outfit in the first place…

…

*bzzzt bzzzt*

Peter took out his mobile device again. He didn't bother looking at the screen; he figured Aurelia managed to get back to him.

"Hello."

…

"_Sokol _(Falcon).", a different woman replied.

His heart skipped a beat, recognizing the raspy tone. The female voice was cold and firm, belying her age, yet revealing her authority.

"_Shipovnik_ (Rosebud).", he spoke back, using her codename.

Of all the people Peter was in the mood to chat with, _she_ was at the bottom of his mental list. The Chief of the Counter-Intelligence Section. An unwelcome surprise for this trip back to Moscow, for sure.

"_Nam nuzhno pogovorit'_ (We need to talk), _Pyotr Andreyevitch_…", went the caller. "…_Ty plokho sebya vel_ (You've been a very naughty boy)."

At that moment, Peter felt something swell up his throat, matching the chill that crawled up his spine.

…

* * *

Six hours later

…

Time didn't matter to her. There was nothing but the pitch blackness for as far as her deadened eyes could tell. Bones and the muscles were still numb, while the rest of the senses felt nothing. Such was the world of a comatose mind, if some sliver of consciousness allowed to experience it.

Yet, little by little, light started to seep through. Silence gave way to faint ringing, shadows made way for small, twinkling sparkles.

…_Huh?_…

Soon, the lights grew brighter, the ringing a bit louder. The scenery remained a blur of colors, but shapes started to form. The eyes recognized a square thing with a line jumping up and down. Beside it was a cylinder topped with clear liquid, hanging above. The ears concurred with the vision, telling her that the ringing sound was coming from a bell. A phone perhaps? And, the more the mind tried to make sense of it all, the more that the truth was made abundantly clear.

This wasn't death.

…

University of California  
San Francisco Medical Center

…

The woman on the hospital bed groaned under her breath, opening her eyes for the first time. All sorts of stimuli began to bombard her senses, causing her to grimace.

"Erin? Erin!", Abigail Frye yelped from her chair.

Erin Cosgrove recognized the voice, but her head was still in a daze. Her eyes wandered elsewhere, striving to make sense of her environment, as if she was still in a trance. She felt paralyzed. A blanket covered her body save for her arms. An IV tube was inserted below her left wrist. There were spots of pain riddling her body, but nothing too overbearing. A window to her left showed a grey, overcast sky, matching the dull interiors of her room. Yet none of these made sense to her brain. It was like being in a fever dream, but she didn't know how much the phrase applied to her right now.

"Oh my God! Erin, can you hear me?"

"A… Abby?", she said with a weak voice.

Finally, she allowed her eyes a few moments to adjust to the silhouette hovering above her. A white woman, with long blonde hair combed to one side, donning a purple jacket with the word "Cal" written in golden font. She wasn't wearing her glasses this time, all the more to emphasize the worried look on her face.

"Hey girlfriend. Welcome back to the living!"

"W-Where… Where am I?"

"UC Medical. You got hurt in a bombing; don't you remember anything?"

Rather than respond, she slowly turned her head from one side to the other, still coming into grips of her predicament. Her creamy-white medical gown concealed all sorts of bandages across her chest, waist, and limbs. If she had a mirror with her, she probably wouldn't recognize the young woman staring back: hair all disheveled, face all cut up by shrapnel. If she didn't have any painkillers coursing through her veins, she would be screaming in agony. Alas, the rest of her body felt like deadweight, her mind was still a bit lethargic. These were probably for the best.

Notwithstanding her friend's presence, however, she felt alone. Like a phantom pain described in TV, when someone lost a limb in an accident. Her arms and legs were all accounted for, yet for some reason Erin felt… incomplete. Memories still jostled, she struggled to recall a word. A name. It felt like ages since she said it.

"Justin…?"

Her eyes filled with a small amount of life, as her heart slowly processed what her brain blurted out. Justin. Her husband. She remembered his stern face and strong words. She remembered talking to him that night, right before everything went blank. There was fondness that flicker of memory, but also a tang of pain. Erin looked at her friend, yearning for an answer. To her dismay, Abby just looked away and sniffled.

"…Erin, I'm so sorry. So much has happened… Maya, Lyle… then you and…"

She didn't quite get what Abby said. Before she could ask another question, however, the door to her room creaked open. Two pairs of eyes glanced across, towards the sudden visitor.

It was another woman, decades older than them in fact, wearing a mannish-looking office suit of quiet lavender. Black hair and slightly darker skin, she also had modest jewelry worn on her ears and around her neck. She was clearly a lady of taste, yet she exuded a strong aura of authority around her. Just a few paces behind her was a bare-headed man in a black suit and tie, wearing intimidating sunglasses. Erin felt she had seen her before, but Abby saved her the trouble of asking about her name.

"Senator Darcy!", the blonde young woman exclaimed.

"How's our little- *gasp*"

The elder one's eyes grew wide as soon as they met the patient's.

"…S-Senator?"

"Oh Thank God. Erin, you're feeling alright?"

"W-What are you doing here?"

"She's been checking up on you for days now.", Abby answered on the woman's behalf. "But I thought the FBI-"

"My conscience won't rest easy until I know she's safe.", Senator Darcy interjected, shooting down her impending query. "Has anyone told the doctor?"

"No, not yet ma'am. I-I'll look for her now."

With that, Abby left the room with a stride, as Erin looked on with still-puzzled eyes. Her place at the side of the bed was then taken up by the older woman, who looked deeply concerned. The unnamed aide stood at a corner, hands clasped in front.

Erin's brain went on to recall everything it knew about this lady. Senator Patricia Darcy. Justin worked for her as an assistant in her California office, a rather strange arrangement given that she would usually spend much of her time in DC and Boston. Erin never knew the Senator on a personal level, but her husband spoke well about her. Somehow, that fact alone became a point of contention today – her presence here felt a bit ominous.

"What… What happened?", Erin asked her as she sat down. "I remember… a flash, a-and…"

Darcy, to her credit, was straightforward.

"*sigh* A terrorist attack from Earth's Hope. Those psychopaths targeted me, stashed a bomb into the office supplies I ordered… They got you and Justin instead."

"Justin… Is he-?"

The more she said the name, the more that the tangled memory began to unravel. It was late at night, at Darcy's residence in Palo Alto. Justin was doing an all-nighter there, but not before he fetched his wife to join him so that they could drive home together later. It was a rare chance for the two of them to be together on a weekday, to spend time and finally talk about their plans for the future. What happened instead wasn't exactly the pleasant chat they wanted, as Erin recalled rather sharp tones and raised voices in that memory. Then came the flash when Justin walked to the delivery van outside. What happened next was blank. There was darkness and silence, the same ones that she woke up from today.

She wanted an answer. She wanted the truth. She should've wished for something better. Darcy suddenly gripped her hands with hers. She looked straight into the younger woman's eyes with a strong, yet heartfelt gaze. Erin couldn't have prepared her heart for her next words.

"He's gone, Erin."

Her heart sank like a rock.

"W-What do you mean?"

"Erin… Your husband, he… He took the brunt of the blast from-"

"No! NO! W-What do you mean he's gone!?"

"Erin…"

Thus started that one terrible, vicious phase that inevitably come to everyone's lives. It would start with denial. She knew what was about to happen next, yet she still couldn't have stopped the flood from her eyes. She yelled and bawled, one greater than the other, as Darcy tried to calm her down. Yet despite it all, her voice seemed like white noise to her ears…

…

* * *

Newark Airport, New Jersey  
At the same time

…

Ethan breathed a sigh of relief as he walked out of Immigration and Customs. At last, another leg of his arduous journey was completed, which immediately reminded him of the other crap he would have to deal with along the way.

He took a few seconds to check his brown jacket, see if everything was in order. IDs, smartphone, and a set of car keys that Rainbow Six was all too keen to provide. A quick look at the wristwatch told Ethan that checking out took a few minutes longer than expected. Not a big deal if he was a simple tourist, but he was on-duty today. Meghan was still waiting for him to check-in again. Thinking that the terminal building was not the best place to make a supposedly-covert phone call, he continued walking with his travel bag in tow. This was his first chance to blend in with the crowd, walking at a casual pace. Part of him wanted to take in the familiar sights and sounds, as it had been years since he last step foot on this part of America.

Quite a lot had changed, sadly. More guards, more CCTVs, more K9 patrols were making the rounds. Friends and families did not linger that much within the terminal's premises, as part of the new safety measures. A PA continued to drone on about the importance for new arrivals to fill out security forms before they leave the airport; no doubt a provision set by the Saint-Claire Law that Harry had talked about before. Ethan also saw a couple across the Departure area being harried by airport guards. It was nothing unusual, save for the part they seemed to be carrying some sort of "hippie shit", as one of the cops yelled it. Plants mostly. Not the most serious bit of contraband, but enough reason for the cops to assume sympathies with the radical eco-warriors of Earth's Hope. Ethan walked away as soon as he could, while the man and the woman were frisked on the spot by mean-looking dudes in tac-gear, with other people ignoring the spectacle.

He made his way out of the terminal building with a hurried stride, coming across the main road that lead to and from Newark Airport. Raindrops tattered the roofs and asphalt, cold air graced unprotected skin, and thunderclaps boomed from the distance. Grumbling to himself, Ethan pulled out the hoodie from his jacket and draped it over his brown hair. Then he walked along the road with his bag in tow, until he reached a lot filled with cars, trucks, of all stripes. Surmising that the coast was clear, Ethan dialed his smartphone and wore an earpiece headset, ready to call his handler…

…

"Valkyrie. I'm in the parking area."

"About damn time; I thought you got pinched by the ICE.", Meghan Castellano replied. "Harry's arranged transport at Parking Three. Black Range Rover, government plates."

_Government plates?_

Grey eyes immediately scanned the vicinity, finding the 4WD she had just described. Among the sea of vehicles, he found one in the darkest matte-paint, sporting impermeable window tints and an eye-catching blue license plate. 'For Official Use Only' was written on the latter's lower half. It didn't take long for the fact to sink in: he was about to break the law _again_, driving a federal-issue vehicle without authorization.

"Yeah, I see it.", Ethan reported unenthusiastically. "I wonder whose ass you had to kiss for those wheels."

"*sigh* You don't wanna know. How's the homefront?"

"Raining. A nice 'welcome home' from New Jersey, really.", Ethan complained.

"Hey, at least the weather's your only problem. Remember those bank accounts that Nøkk got from Earth's Hope in Australia?"

"You mean the ones she also saw in Peru yesterday? Yeah."

He was almost dumbstruck by her next words.

"Well, Interpol said at least one of them went live a few hours after the Peru operation.", Meghan went on. "A secure fund transfer in USDs, hopping across multiple addresses to cover its tracks."

"I'll be damned!"

"We're still trying to piece the paper trail, but the Treasury Department's not playing ball with us. The transfer could've originated _in_ America for all we know."

Ethan processed this new information while he unlocked the vehicle with a press of the keys. A fund transfer from a suspected-terrorist bank account could mean a lot of different things. The bad guys could be stockpiling for another attack, for instance, or they could be buying favors from some top-dog.

"Christ. I'll put a pin on it. Maybe I could find out something about it here.", Ethan spoke into the earpiece.

He then started to inspect the Rover's interior, checking off a mental list of essentials. Tires, oil, gas, and so on, like any good driver would do. He was just another poor schmuck as far as the security guards were concerned, as they made their rounds around the parking lot. The hooded jacket also covered his face quite well from the myriad of security cameras dotting the airport.

"How's the Team?", he asked the woman on the phone.

"We're making final preps for the trip to Greece. It's gonna be a full house, since Nøkk and Grim Sky are joining us. Reckon we'll be there for two weeks, maybe three…"

He let her drone on and on as he focused his attention on the vehicle; her voice quickly fading into the background. Mirrors seemed to be in order. The parking ticket was set on the dashboard, shielded from prying eyes by the windshield's tints. The GPS tracker under the driver's seat had already been removed - yet another felony that Team Rainbow committed for the sake of this mission. He also double-checked the glove box, and was happy to see that Harry stashed a Glock 23 in there; perfect for a concealed carry. Next, he walked to see what was on the back.

"…Oh, Emma's still pissed you ghosted her after the meeting yesterday." Meghan said. "_Enculé _(Asshole), I think her exact word was. She hardly uses that on anyone."

Her sentences finally elicited a reaction from the man, causing him to stop on his tracks.

"Hey that's Harry's fault, not mine.", Ethan defended himself. "He's the one who made the schedule."

His heart raced for a bit, realizing he had done something terribly wrong before he left. It was only a few moments later that he surmised Emma spouted that crap to mess with him. It was one of her habits, after all, to make her friends uncomfortable from time to time.

_Friends, huh?_

"Hehehe. Whatever you say, Specialist Mallory."

"Specialist Mallory? What happened to just Ace?"

"Ah right. I forget to tell ya that one of the new guys shares your callsign now."

"Won't be the first time. Who's he?"

"Håvard Haugland. Ex-FSK and paramedic, now working for Nighthaven…"

He was probably the blonde dude that Ethan saw in yesterday's meeting, seated with the albino chick, the black girl with the dreads, and the hulking man with a chinstrap. This one, though, was another Nighthaven goon. Rainbow already had the Puissance Group in its payroll, but Harry still found a reason to bring _another_ private security firm into the fold. Alas, this was a matter to be debated at a different time.

"…He's got thousands of Instagram followers, wears his mask like a fucking meme.", Meghan spoke lightheartedly. "We're pegging him as a breacher and entry-man; cut Jordan and Yumiko some slack."

"Sounds like he fits right in already. You guys just behave while I'm gone."

"Speak for yourself, Ethan. You're in America now, working with no direct supervision. You could run off to somewhere and we won't be able to find you."

Ethan nodded. It was surely a tempting course: to ditch the mission for Long Island, to his kid and his ex-wife. It was only a short drive compared to his primary objective, after all. He could find some measure of peace there, away from the madness that Emily and the White Masks had brought unto the world. Alas, he knew better than to walk away.

"Eh, that's why you have Erik.", he joked. "Give that bum something to do."

"I heard that, you bastard.", a male voice suddenly chimed in.

"Hey man. What's the skinny?", Ethan smiled to himself, never thought he'd miss talking with his grumpy comrade

"My contact in SIGINT doesn't have an exact pos, but he picked up quite a lot of back-chatter from Langley recently. Pinpointed it to Iowa, somewhere northwest."

"Northwest? Huh… I think I know what he's talking about."

There was an old corn farm in Dickinson County the CIA used as a storage facility and safehouse. Quiet and far from civilization: an appealing choice for a 'black site'. If the place was still standing, it would make sense for the damn spooks to have sent Emily there. To what end, he could think of more than one grizzly explanation.

"You've been there before?", Erik asked.

"Once, with the Special Activities Division. Gonna have to do some recon first, see if it's still like the last time."

"Ehh, I don't think Langley's gonna be thrilled to see you there. You got the care package?"

Ethan's interest was piqued, as he was yet to see what was stowed in the back of the Rover. He went over there to wrap up his inspection, pulling the handle and swinging the rear door open. Ignoring the tire jack, bolt cutter, tactical vest, and toolbox stashed inside, he came across a brown, 30-inch hard-shell carrying case. It had no distinguishing marks whatsoever, presumably they were painted over, but any soldier worth his salt would easily surmise what was contained within. Listening to his instincts, Ethan briefly looked over his shoulders to see if the guards were still in the vicinity.

He then flicked off the locks on the carrying case, opening it to reveal two compartments. What awaited him was an assortment of goods, "contraband", stashed between layers of polyethylene foam. One compartment contained a portable tri-rotor UAV, similar to the ones used by Delta for long-range reconnaissance. It was specifically a Skell-Tech design, as per its markings, which further distinguished it from the two standard-issue mecanum-wheeled drones that were stashed beside it. A larger compartment in the box contained a gun-gray Mk.14 EBR, 7.62mm, which brought out another smile of appreciation. It had all the usual complements: Magpul CTR stock, Trijicon ACOG with a backup sight, among other accessories. Markings were all stamped off as a precaution, but the weapon was the real deal nonetheless - not the kit bash "EBR" that Grace Nam proudly wielded. Extra mags and other optics and miscellanies rounded off the rest of the package.

There was also a sticky note pinned beside the box, shedding light on Ethan's gracious benefactor.

…

_"Don't ask how we got these for ya. You owe me and Valk a keg once you get back. ~Blackbeard"_

_…_

_Heh. Fuckin' SEALs._

The gear would help him with his covert work. The weapons, however, were a different matter altogether. He was packing enough heat to defend himself from ruthless terrorist goons, but could also put him in jeopardy with law enforcement. The chances of encountering either were quite high, considering the state of things. However, anybody wouldn't think twice to mark Ethan as a threat if they saw him packing this much hardware, with no unit patch or ID to show for it. And yet the last thing Harry would need is to learn about a bunch of honest-to-God policemen being killed to keep his mission secret.

"Yeah, I got the package.", Ethan spoke into his earpiece. "Feels like I'm going to war. I assume you have an alibi for me, in case I get pulled over?"

"Hell no.", Erik laughed. "Those fancy plates are supposed to keep the cops off your back to begin with."

"Just keep a low profile and don't do anything stupid.", Meghan gave a more sensible reply. "Remember what you came there for: locate and extract Emily Jacobsen, make her spill the beans. Earth's Hope, Orson Rose, the accounts… everything."

"Mmhm. You don't have to tell me twice."

It warmed his heart knowing that his comrades still got his back. But they had done their part; it was time that he began his.

After double-checking that the supply case was secured, he stashed his travel bag beside it and closed the rear door shut. Sitting on the driver's seat, he turned the ignition on, which brought life to the rumbling engine, and released the handbrake. By his estimates, his trip would take about twenty hours. He didn't need to waste any more time. He stepped on the pedal with a deep breath of determination.

"I'm egressing out of the Airport now, Valkyrie. I'll call you again once I reached the first waypoint."

"Check that. You're on your own from here, Ethan. Stay alive, stay in touch."

Thus begun his gig as a lone wolf, as a stranger in his own soil. This wasn't exactly the homecoming he had in mind, but the time to rethink his choices was long past.

…

* * *

…

"Keep tracking, Odysseus."

Caleb did as the earpiece told him, as he remained crouched inside a delivery van and he adjusted the focus ring of his spotting scope, propped up in a bipod. A video camera mounted in tandem captured every image he scanned. The scope's crosshairs rested on top of a man wearing a brown hoodie, checking the back of his Range Rover some 20 yards away. The rain did little to hamper his concentration.

For a brief moment, the subject turned around. It was a split-second, but it was more than enough time to catch a good glimpse of his face. Caucasian, grey eyes, brown crewcut, and a complexion of one in his mid-30s. Caleb remained emotionless as he pressed the 'record' and 'transmit' buttons. Deep within his heart, he felt a surge of tension and calm - familiar feelings for a predator, moments before the strike. He recognized the man. His name was on his hit-list.

"Yeah. Confirmed clear visual.", Ajax radioed him again. "Want me to call Treadway?"

"Wilco.", was his firm answer.

This was his chance. His trusted, sound-suppressed M40 was stashed in a rifle case behind where he crouched. It would only take about a few seconds for him to unfurl the damn thing, prop it up near the window, chamber a round, and pull the trigger. Or at least that's what his emotions wanted to tell him. Logic quickly kicked-in, helped him keep things into perspective. Caleb had not yet zeroed his rifle's scope, to accommodate the distance between him and his target. The rainy weather would also affect his bullet's flight, greatly increasing his chances of missing a precious shot. And he only had _one_ shot to do it, as the place was crawling with Newark security personnel. All these details caused his blood to simmer down a bit, as his fantasy was brought down by cold hard facts.

His revenge would have to come at another time.

"Odysseus.", another voice radioed. It was from a much older fellow.

"Bossman.", Caleb talked softly. "I have Positive ID on Target Four: Ethan Mallory, here in Newark. Looks like he flew in alone like our intel said."

The old man audibly sighed, coupled with a creak from his chair. It sounded like he was still in the _other_ office, a long way from home.

"Huh. Aurelia's replacement is not that stupid to only send one of his guys…"

On this instance, Caleb agreed with the facts. Of all the traps that Team Rainbow would fall for, they chose America. That would complicate matters a bit, as the risk of a full-on battle with the "world's best warriors" had just increased tenfold. But at the same time, Orson was still free to oversee things in Moscow - he could now ensure things would go as planned, thereby forcing Rainbow's hand. And besides, the fools had just pushed their luck to come back to a country that didn't want them anymore; that could easily be used against them once the proper tools are employed.

"…On the other hand, he's not as smart as I thought either. I've heard nothing about Team Rainbow here in Nagoya."

"You still think we're in the clear?", the bald man asked. "Even after we lost Rojas and Earth's Hope?"

"Of course. We will stick to the plan at all costs. That said, the sooner we deal with the remaining loose ends, the better."

Caleb grimaced, not sharing the old man's priorities. Putting a kill order on Erin Cosgrove and Agnes Kipper made sense, as they had unknowingly learned things they should not have had. But still, it was far more prudent to deal with the _real_ opposition, rather than a hapless banker and an unwitting child, as these guys had already killed so many of Caleb's colleagues. The crosshairs made it pretty damn clear there's at least one Rainbow operative now in US soil, despite their _persona non grata_ status by Homeland Security. And if he made it this far without being accosted by the security forces, then his support crew had improved since last time. The fools were getting closer to unraveling the whole plan, even if their actions so far were just baby steps.

"Aren't you worried about Mallory?"

"We'll track him with the drones and mark his route.", Treadway replied to him. "In the meantime, I need you to stay in Newark, see if anyone's gonna catch-up with him. I'll send Ajax to intercept later."

"*sigh* Understood, sir."

"No hard feelings, son?"

"None.", Caleb lied.

He watched in disappointment as the black Range Rover began to drive away. The chance for payback slowly slipped through his fingers, and he was powerless to do anything about it. But he knew he would have another opportunity, if he was patient enough. He couldn't wait to mark off some names. Ethan Mallory, Emmanuelle Pichon, Aurelia Arnot…

…

* * *

…

Erin felt lost. Empty. Part of her wished she remained comatose, never to awaken, rather than face the horrible truth. Senator Darcy handed her another tissue to wipe away the tears, which the latter did with her weakened right hand. It didn't do any good.

It had started to rain a little after she wept, as though the heavens were crying with her. But that kind of sympathy only made her even more gloomy, which didn't do any wonders to her body. The painkillers didn't seem react well to such a powerful emotion, and thus small pinpricks of pain started to riddle her chest and face. But she didn't mind. In fact, she didn't care at all. She had a sliver of hope that these little knives would put her under, maybe even kill her in her sleep. Death would be a blessing compared to the harsh truth. It was the only way she could see her husband again.

"*sniffles* Why…Why did this happen… *sniffles*", she asked to nobody in particular.

The only one willing to lend an ear was a middle-aged politician. Not exactly the best partner to share one's grief.

"Can't say I know why eco-terrorists do what they do, my dear.", Darcy tried to console her. "I suppose, for some reason, they thought I was an ally of Mother Earth's enemies. Preposterous."

"…"

"You and your husband had nothing to do with all this. But if it is any comfort, I will put you under my personal care. See to it that justice is served."

A promise. Whether it was an empty one or not didn't matter to Erin, who was still reeling from the blow to her heart. She and Justin… To think they were talking about the future that night, about the surgery Justin wanted her to take in DC. It was as though they were tempting fate. They might have squabbled over the 'how', but they both wanted to have a baby and live out their lives. None of that matter anymore, thanks to a bunch of murderous bastards. Their name didn't mean one lick of concern to Erin, until now. 'Earth's Hope' was one hell of a fucking misnomer.

"You work at a bank, correct? Prestige National, in downtown?", Darcy changed the subject.

Erin nodded in reply.

"Good to know. I opened a trust fund yesterday, in my name. I'll have the Bank transfer it to you. It'll never be enough to rebuild your life, but…"

"My dad.", she interjected. "D-Does he know?"

"I've already sent word to our embassy in Manila. We'll try to get him here as soon as possible. But we have to be discreet; there's no telling what the bad guys are going to do."

Those words alone poked more needles into her heart. There were no more tears, though. The stirring she felt was yet another stage of grief: anger.

"Your enemies are goddamn monsters.", Erin muttered.

"Yes. But monsters can be put down - there's nothing you should be afraid of. I will rally the American people behind us."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, no need to concern yourself with that, dear.", Darcy stood up from her chair, smiling assuredly. "You just stay here, rest and heal up. If there's anything you need, let me know. I want you to feel at home."

Erin couldn't smile back even if she wanted. She was mad at the Senator for calling his husband to work that fateful night. She was mad at her own good fortune for sparing her the peace of death. She was mad at the world for denying her chance of a wonderful future. The grief was overbearing, needlessly agitating the wounds on her body. And still, part of her wanted all of this to be untrue, like a twisted nightmare or a practical joke. She wanted to sulk in bed, fall into a deep sleep, forget about everything she had learned today.

Little did she realize that her prayer was quickly answered. The door to the room opened again. This time, a dark-skinned lady clad in white was standing by the doorframe, clutching a clipboard across her chest. The blonde Abby Frye was just behind her shoulder. Darcy looked at the woman and smiled, as though she had been expecting her.

"Ah, doctor. I was just seeing to our patient."

"I'll take it from here, Madame Senator. Prep her for surgery."

"Of course.", the older woman nodded.

Darcy stood aside as courtesy while the doctor went inside. The door was rather deceptive; hidden from Erin's view was a male nurse pushing a medical cart, containing all sorts of instruments that inspired dread to any patient. Some were sharp, pointy-things, while others were jars of medicine or chemicals. Primal fear started to take hold, which was a quite contrast to her earlier feelings of stark resignation. All this time she had been awake, she was yet to fully-realize the grievousness of her wounds.

"W-Wait. What is this?! Agh!", Erin panicked, causing some of bandages to redden again.

"Standard procedure, Mrs. Cosgrove.", the doctor responded, right before she injected a different liquid into her IV. "Just relax. You'll feel better…"

She knew what it meant: back to the cold, silent sleep that she had been yearning for. Struggle as she did, the drug started to take effect. The grief and pain slowly ebbed into peace, anger made way for stupor. Abby looked at her with anxious concern, but she was powerless to do anything of help. Perhaps this was for the best. There would be more time to process everything later.

Before she dozed off, Erin managed one last glance at the Senator; two pairs of eyes meeting again. This time, though, there was a lot less life on the woman's gaze. Less impersonal. She spoke to her aide in a low voice.

"Keep tabs on the kid."

Erin wondered if they were talking about her.

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **Still alive, still kicking! Quarantine has not made it easier for me to write as I previously hoped - among other things, my work schedule has drastically changed and will likely remain so through August. Thankfully, I managed to put this chapter together with what little free-time I had for the past few weeks. To explain the relatively short length, this chapter provides some build-up for the rest of the plot. I wanted to show that Erin survived the bombing in Chapter Four and that Peter's about to get even more involved in uncovering the bad guys' conspiracy.


	10. Chapter 9 - Into the Fire

**.**

* * *

**Chapter Nine - "Into the Fire"**

* * *

Elis, Greece  
The following day

…

_"~Obviously when assessing any potential future threats, there is that which we know and that which we don't. But it is always that which we don't know 'we don't know' that poses the greatest danger_…_ Here in this crucible, we will come together, so that we may be stronger apart.~"_

…

Harry's words echoed in one woman's head as her bus slowed to a halt, hours after an equally-long journey from the airport. She felt relief knowing her mind could finally focus on more pleasant thoughts.

The destination, after all, wasn't like any other on her bucket list. Elis: the birthplace of the Olympics, more than two thousand square kilometers of ancient history that Emmanuelle Pichon never expected to add to her belt. The last time she went to Greece was at a family island-hopping, about a decade before she ever donned her Gendarme _kepi_. Crete, Santorini, Rhodes… Suffice to say, she was more than happy to return and play the role of a tourist once more, years overdue it might be. She stepped off the bus with a little song in her heart, the scent of fresh air gracing her nostrils, affirming that this trip wasn't such a waste of time after all.

The sun shone proudly on clear skies, further brightening her mood. She was the fifth person to step out of a bus filled with black-clad engineers and tech experts, one of three carrying Team Rainbow from Kalamata International. Her group had the dubious honor of being the first to set foot into the Stadium, as it was their job to re-check the facilities and training equipment that Harry prepared for the "demonstration" later.

The thought of the Olympics suddenly made even more sense. Looking at the colossal structure before her, Emma saw it wasn't as grand as she expected it to be. Graffiti still adorned some parts of the moss-covered walls, and the bright ivory sheen of their concrete had faded away. The recent retrofits had fixed most of these blemishes, but only just. Premium-grade metal panels could only go so far to hide which shouldn't be seen, and the stunning post-modern architecture of the 80s had given way to a more futuristic feel. Emma, ever the avid connoisseur of fancy sights, kept her expectations low as she and her little tour group ventured on. They came across bland hallways and cold concrete floors, one after the other, in the sprawling complex. The basement didn't fare any better either, which sported some rather dim lighting to boot. Looking at the wires snaking across the floor, it looked like Harry's hired hands were still working on the electrical system.

All throughout, armed men in aquamarine fatigues either shadowed Emma's group or stood sentry at key places. They behaved all too similar to those Puissance mercs that they left behind to guard Hereford Base. This time though, their shoulder patches bore an ivory owl emblem. Nighthaven.

"Here we are!", Elena "Mira" Alvarez announced to the party, as she stopped in front of a set of double doors.

*swish*

_Oh, good grief_…

Emma felt her jaw drop a bit; she should've remembered not to judge a book by its cover. The Stadium was unkempt and unloved from the outside, but it was a stark contrast to that which awaited her within. She feasted her eyes on the hardware afforded to the Program's makeshift R&D Lab Room: precision milling tools, top-of-the-line CNC machines, high-grade equipment of all stripes, distributed among several cubicles. The setup was not at all different from the one she left behind in England – even the worktables were the same. The only major change was the backdrop, as the Lab was built from the remains of a football locker room, only a short jaunt away from the arena outside. Elena, Rainbow's "top boffin", made her way past Emma's shoulder in a commanding stride, then pointed fingers at each workstation for her fellow engineers.

"Fabricators are in that corner.", she motioned. "Calibrators on the other side, oscilloscopes are over there… If you need anything else, req forms are on my desk."

"Goddamn went ahead of yourself again, eh Mira?", Jordan Trace chided her.

"You know me.", she smiled back at him. "We'll be here for a while, so we might as well be comfortable. _Mi casa es su casa_."

And thus, the tour was over.

Everyone followed her lead, dropping their duffel bags and packs on one table or the next, then spilling their contents. Jordan went straight to work with the training explosives and incendiaries, while Mira unfolded packs of Sim-Suits from her bag to hook them up into a diagnostics kit. Others did the same, filling the air with sounds of ripping Velcro and metals clanging together. Soon, the workshop was rife with the rhythm of pneumatic presses, hydraulic saws, and grinding 3D printers. Emma spruced up her workbench by taking an electron scope from a nearby shelf and hooking it up to her personal laptop. Next, she pulled out an ammunition case from her knapsack, grunting at its weight, and set it beside her. Satisfied with the setup, she then tied her brown curls into a prim and proper bun. She was not a tourist anymore: she was tasked with inspecting the hand-tooled training rounds, prep them for today's activity.

The rounds came in various calibers, separated in trays inside the ammo case. She took out a 7.62mm and ran it through an electron scan, double-checking if she had gotten the specifications right. Gone were the soft, calcium carbonate tips as per Ethan's suggestion a few nights ago, and instead they were replaced by a chemical mixture that would dissolve the projectile into a fine, white powder on impact. Probably a good thing, since being hit by even a non-lethal 7.62 was usually a painful experience in of itself. She had firsthand taste, after all, albeit with the _real_ thing. The thing nearly killed her. It was like being hit by a baseball, if it was made of lead, and could burrow into flesh and bone as fast as lightning. The pain was incredible; even now, she could still remember the smell of blood, the gunpowder, and burning metal when she fell. That said, getting shot was arguably a preferable fate than being gassed alive, as one young girl in Bartlett University would probably_-_

She shook her head at the next moment, stopping herself from remembering last night's nightmare.

_Focus, Emmanuelle. Focus._

The scanner beeped after a few seconds, producing positive results. Then she moved on with the next bullet, and the next one, hoping to clear all of the tray's contents fast enough before she moved to another. Tedious work, one that could've been done with robots or a fancy AI, but she insisted on a hands-on treatment for her projects. She wanted to keep herself busy, lest her mind wandered somewhere bad again. This was not the right time to think about when she failed to save Madison Saint-Claire, or when Emma herself nearly died in Oregon. This needless busywork at the Lab was essentially therapy, or at least something better than getting absolutely shit-faced in a bar and seducing a good friend for a quick fuck. She cringed in her head when she suddenly remembered what she tried to pull on Ethan that night. With the panties and everything. She's still eager to explain herself to him, that she hadn't gone completely bonkers, but then Harry sent him away on that secret assignment of his…

"Hey Twitch."

Just as Emma was about to go into a steady groove in her work, she heard someone call her from behind. It was a short woman wearing black fatigues, her hair and skin were as white as Christmas snow. Her smile was as beaming as the sun outside.

"_Docteur_ Meijer. Can I help you?"

"Oh, drop the formalities; 'Iana' would do.", she smirked.

Specialist Nienke Meijer. The short Dutch lady had been in the Team for less than a week, yet she had already made a positive impression. A scientist and astronaut by trade, as well as a key figure in the EU Space Program, she nonetheless showed remarkable aptitude for weapons technology that belie the fancy degrees mentioned in her dossier. She and the other eggheads in Rainbow mostly got along well, especially Elena, although she could be blunt and pushy at times. By all accounts, she was a civilian despite her rather limited military experience - an interesting addition to the soldiers and police-types that made up the Rainbow family.

"Here's your phone.", Iana pulled something from her trousers' front left pocket. "I finally got Madison to integrate to it during the flight."

Emma blinked in surprise. She had almost forgotten about the favor she asked her when they were in the plane. It was more of a dare, really - to see if Iana's grasp of artificial intelligence was on par with hers. With the device on her palm, Emma swiped across the screen to turn it on, eager to see if a certain brown-haired female computer avatar made it into the list of apps. And true enough, Madison was there, in all her cheerful, photo-realistic glory.

"W…Wow. You did this in just three hours!?", she praised.

"Mmhm. Your AI is amazing, by the way - her adaptive protocols will really help my Gemini program be more life-like. Not sure how she'll be useful in the field though."

"Ehh, you'll never know.", Emma shrugged. "She's just a little pet project of mine anyway."

Iana's workbench was just across hers, both of which were facing a large pane of glass that showed them the training field just outside. Peering beyond the window, the two women observed some construction workers in their natural habitat. They were working on a labyrinth of see-through barriers and concrete and plaster slabs, stacked on top of each other to form a makeshift Kill House. Men and materiel moved like clockwork, making final preparations to the training venue and spectator boxes, all while Taina and Meghan oversaw the whole effort from the sidelines. Everything had to follow the exact specs of Harry's little show. The pressure was on for the R&D people to step up their game, provide a spectacle that the men in suits wouldn't soon forget.

And speak of the Devil, these VIPs were hard to miss. Emma could see that about 20 of them were on the opposite end of the training field, massed into a little tour group of their own, herded by Director Harishva Pandey himself. Meghan approached them and engaged in conversation, obviously too far away for anyone to eavesdrop on. They basked in awe at the Kill House, today's main attraction.

"So… that's where the magic is gonna happen huh?", Iana muttered. "It's quite intimidating."

"You won't be in The Program, if that's what you're worried about."

"No, not just that. I'm fine pulling double shifts in a lab, but… simulated combat drills? I haven't even held a gun since I left the _Luchtmacht_ (Air Force)."

"Heh. Didn't the REU train you to fight aliens or something?", Emma joked. "Seems to me you left a cool job up in space and jumped straight down into the fire."

Iana turned to her with a frown in her brows, seemingly offended by the stupid presumption.

"I signed up for the science. The challenge. I leave the killing to people like you, no offense."

The Frenchwoman paused for a moment, feeling daggers suddenly thrust into her heart. 'Killers'. There was some truth in that, after all, for she was no longer the innocent, scrawny-whizz kid or the globe-trotting tourist in her youth. From her time in the _Gendarmerie_, to her stint in Rainbow, she had claimed dozens of lives. 'Confirmed enemy kills', going alongside the trophies and certificates of excellence she had on her name. Such a bitter irony, to find so much blood in a self-styled humanist such as herself. In return for saving innocent people from dangerous psychopaths, she now had bad dreams about the massacre in Bartlett University, the last breaths of Madison Saint-Claire, and the bullet that nearly cut her life short. Fitting gifts to a 'killer', perhaps.

"Bah, I'm sure you'll do fine.", Emma assured her, feigning a bit of bravado. "Most of us also got anxious in our first week."

"I'm not used to getting my ass kicked, Twitch."

"Well, you better get ready because that's part of our training. We have the best of the best right here. You can ask Eliza or Harry if you need more trigger-time."

Iana smiled in reply, not knowing how much of a worried wreck her fellow engineer actually was. Emma took some comfort knowing that she had already gone through her baptism of fire in Rainbow. In a way, she was a peg higher than this white-haired girl, for whatever good it was worth. She only needed to embody her words, now more than ever. 'Be stronger apart', as Harry said it.

And so, she continued with her work on the cartridges, shoving aside any lingering fears or doubts she still had in her genius brain. It's what Ethan would do in her place after all, should he be stuck building practice bullets rather than going solo recon missions at the States. Emma smiled at the thought of him doing such a thankless job; at least then, he would have one more thing in common with her. He might even give her more pointers about 5.56s and 9-mils. She moved to their trays after she was finished with the larger ines. Once again, she ran each individual cartridge to a scanner, checking them for weight, aerodynamics, and powder content, taking note of every beep and reading for consistency.

If she was going to get hit with one of these later, they had to pass her own strict safety standards.

Iana looked on while she worked, then seemingly decided that her appointed-task could be set aside for later. She seemed eager to pitch in, as she went towards Emma's desk and offered to help her fill up the magazines with bullets she checked. The two of them harmoniously worked in tandem, with one running a dummy bullet into the scanner, and another loading it into an empty magazine. STANAG, PMAG, or even the ultra-rare MAS mags that Emma still had for her FAMAS. The rhythm slowly gave way to peace, peace to levity. Soon, the two women started giggling at themselves, realizing how their genius was spent doing something incredibly mundane. The cheers were all but lost in the humdrum of the workshop, as machines of all stripes roared to life.

"Pardon me ladies.", Jordan casually butted in. "We got one more piece to add into the pile."

The man was just fresh from his workbench, smelling a bit like a fireworks factory himself. He plopped down a large, flat piece of metal onto Emma's table, the steel clang indicating its weight. It was an R1N Rhino, something that the two Rainbow vets were familiar with. Not Iana, though, who looked genuinely curious to see it. One glance was all she needed to correctly guess its structural composition.

"Oooh.", her eyes widened with glee. "That's a boron carbide protective plate! Spall-stop coating, BFD face-mesh…"

"Umm… why are you bringing this to us?", the other woman frowned.

"Ask your boy, Rook. The kid tossed that to me when we landed in Kalamata. Feels like he's worried someone's gonna get hurt later."

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she relented for the sake of decorum.

"He's such a baby! I already said my training rounds aren't _that_ dangerous! Do you know where he is?"

"Beats me. Probably touring the Stadium in a goddamn bike or somethin'.", Jordan shrugged. "Anyways, he already filled out the form with Gus's signature on it, so I suggest y'all get working right now."

He then walked away to let the two women do their thing. At least one of them felt infinitely annoyed with the rush job. But on the other hand, Julien had a point that she had to concede to. The Rhino plates did save her life once, after all; adding this piece into the demonstration would likely yield the same result for her and everyone else. It warmed her heart to think there was at least one other man in Rainbow who still looked out for her.

"I say, it's a good opportunity to see how the Sim-Suits mesh with our body armor and your munitions.", Iana remarked. "Not that hard for you, right?"

"I suppose.", Emma shrugged. "But this is just more work for me."

She then set it to the side of the table, as if to emphasize how far down it was on her queue of concerns. In truth, she welcomed the new job order. More distractions meant more ways to ease her mind, keep her away from any lingering sadness. Ultimately, that's what the Program meant to her.

*fssssss*

All eyes went to the source of the sound. Something in the Texan's workbench was starting to fizzle, creating a puff of white smoke. Iana gasped in horror, but her colleagues were less than fazed. Especially Jordan.

"Aw, shit. Don't panic everyone. I got this.", he announced as he calmly manhandling the chaos on his desk.

Everyone had gotten used to his brand of chemistry, but a few people still expressed strong emotions. Whatever crap he was working with smelled like burnt metal oxide, albeit in a lesser concentration. Emma surmised that Jordan was actually working on the compact hard breach explosive packs that he had been tinkering for weeks now, probably thinking about adding them to the demonstration as well. The scent threatened to trigger that terrible nightmare again, but it didn't work this time around. How could it, when Emma was in the company of friends? The warm, pleasant feeling when she stepped off the bus had somehow returned, making her truly feel at home in Elis.

"*sigh* Jordan,_ por favor, _you can try to blow us all up later.", Elena called out from her desk, obviously not amused. "We need to get all our gear ready before showtime."

"I said I got it Mira!"

The fizzling became stronger than it reeked, as though it could only be doused by a healthy spray of pressurized nitrogen. Jordan, quietly panicking in his workstation, started pounding on the fire with a piece of wet cloth. It did the job, but it created a cloud of noxious fume that sent everyone near him into a coughing fit. Curses were shouted, excuses were made. It was just another day in the Team's R&D Labs. And Emma found herself laughing even harder, much to Iana's wonder.

"Wow. You guys really are… something."

"Special?"

"Weird."

She tapped the other woman's shoulder, smiling. For once, her joy was genuine.

"Welcome to Rainbow. Hey, you're here too!"

…

* * *

…

Harry was glad to see his people getting along so well. Behind a screen of glass in the distance, he could see Emmanuelle and Ninke bantering with each other. Further behind them, Jordan was having an earful from Elena, as they both tried to contain the little accident the former had on his workbench. Surely, they got it all sorted out. The same could not be said to the one talking in Harry's cellphone.

"…And if this is a rogue spear operation that Rose is part of, then the CIA have been infiltrated worse than we thought.", Aurelia Arnot continued to speak.

"Hmm.", he stroked his stubble in quiet worry. "That is indeed troubling."

Harry remained silent and calm as he processed the information that she just told him; his guests needn't be alarmed or tipped off. Brass tacks: according to Aurelia's contact, the White Masks' new technical expert, Orson Rose, had _too much_ in common with his predecessor, Adam Kipper, than Rainbow knew about. Both were financially-motivated, had Western origins, and both had criminal ties. But now, they learned that both had _also_ worked with the Special Activities Division in the past, with one Emily Jacobsen as their handler. This woman might have played a bigger part in the White Masks thanks to her position. As Case Officer, she probably inserted more of her own people in key positions within the chain of command, creating a "rogue spear" or a renegade faction within the military acting without the higher-ups' knowledge. Much as he liked to hate their motives, Harry was impressed by the terrorists' dedication. Years upon years of plotting and patience have culminated in a massive campaign that Rainbow _thought_ they thwarted in New York more than a year ago.

Nevertheless, he kept his fears in check. He'd been in this business long enough to be accustomed to intrigue and deception, no matter where it came from. Aurelia taught him as much. Rather than dwell on the circumstances that led to this problem, it was more prudent to plan ahead.

"Have you told the President about this?", he asked her.

"Not yet. Things are hot in DC these days. Like everyone here will lynch me if they find out I got this intel from the FSB."

"Hmm. Solidarity has become a foreign concept to the world at large it seems.", Harry replied.

"*sigh* Yeah. Some days I wished I stayed with Rainbow. Anyway, our people making any progress yet?"

Before he opened his mouth, Harry glanced over his shoulder first. The man in the brown suit, one Under-Secretary-General Barston, was not too far away from him, mingling with the other representatives and delegates. This gentleman had flown a long way from New York just to keep tabs on Team Rainbow in person, and his prudence was just as expected from the Security Council. Good his intentions might be, there were still quite a few things about the Team's operations that he shouldn't know about, so Harry kept his voice soft.

"Right now, Ethan is working incognito on your lead in the States. Miss Shah said her troops are running missions in the Indian Ocean as we speak. Won't be long now until we locate the pirates that Agent Nøkk's intel indicated."

There was a pregnant pause from his old mentor, oddly so. Hearing about Team Rainbow's success to dismantle the terrorists' supply network bit by bit, even with the whole pseudo-exhibition here in Greece, should have been a monumental achievement in her eyes.

"Is something bothering you?"

"Let's just say… I'm getting bad vibes all around.", Aurelia finally responded. "After everything we've seen with these psychos, you'd think politics will be our ally, not our biggest threat."

"The Program _will_ work."

"I hope so. You are aware that Barston is the only one protecting you from Homeland Security, right? Bob hasn't exactly forgiven us yet."

And by 'Bob' she was referring to Homeland Secretary Robert Treadway, a name she was yet to speak with any hint of affection or friendship whatsoever.

"Of course.", Harry replied confidently. "This is isn't our first dance with the UN. Won't be the last one either."

"Glad to hear it. In the meantime, I'll see if I can talk to a few more friends to help you out."

"Friends? I'm surprised you still have them. Do you have anyone specific?"

Aurelia let out a hearty laugh before she replied. It was uplifting and ominous at the same time.

"I'll see if he's still available."

*beep*

Harry tucked his phone back into his pocket. He wanted to be optimistic, to relish the fact that Team Rainbow still had plenty of allies behind the scenes despite Homeland Security's meddling. Things could still be on the upswing, despite having just learned something terrible about the illusive Mr. Rose. On the other hand, things on Aurelia's end were probably getting bad if she was starting to scrape down the barrel for literally _any_ kind of help she could still get her hands on. He hoped that her Russian friend didn't get either of them into serious trouble. And a little voice in his head kept telling him that a lot more needed to be done. Earth's Hope, the White Masks… it didn't matter if their advesaries had many names. Time was running out. And remembering what Rainbow still don't know 'they don't know', time was running out faster than they could fathom it.

He realized he was becoming pensive again. He tightened his tie as a gesture of confidence; it was his job to be a showman today. He turned around to the crowd behind him, seeing that Barston and Meghan were having a serious discussion of their own. He observed his other guests: each of them a person of import from his or her government. They needed to be shown the light. They needed to know that Team Rainbow could teach them a thing or two about unity. They needed to realize that Team Rainbow could also benefit from them, whether in teachings or in clout, or anything to help with the greater mission. As the blonde American finished talking with Barston, she turned to Harry and nodded.

It was time to see if they could kick the Program off to a good start.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention please?", he bid them. "The combat demonstration will begin in an hour. My colleague here will give you a rundown on what you can expect."

…

* * *

Somewhere in Dickinson County, Iowa  
One hour later

…

Ethan felt right at home. Alone, crouched behind a screen of cornstalks, peering into the scope of a Mk.14 EBR beneath some humid weather. On his crosshairs was an old farm complex, half a klick away, surrounded by fields of yellow grain. The place was quite humble: just one giant red barn, connected to an L-shaped house and two rusty silos behind it. There were a couple of men outside, dressed in slacks and sharing a pack of smokes beside a blue pickup truck. They were failing hard at being subtle, with their black shades and earpieces, but perhaps the SAD simply didn't bother hiding their presence here anyway. After all, they were in the ass-end of nowhere.

That only assured Ethan that he'd come to the right place.

_Come on fellas. Show me something interesting._

Most people probably wouldn't think much of Iowa, unless they were living there or they're tuning in for the caucuses. A land of endless corn and nothing else, if stereotypes were to be believed. In truth, it's one of the few places in the Midwest where the CIA's Special Activities Division could operate with impunity, away from the White House's prying eyes. Ethan would know, considering that much of his time in Delta Force was spent working with them. About a few months before Operation Witch Hunt kicked off, he and his team helped the SAD escort a high-value individual from the State Penitentiary in Lee County to the Federal Supermax in Colorado. It was a boring 12-hour trip with nobody from the FBI or the NSA breathing down their necks. It was an illegal operation, in other words, as the SAD was forbidden from operating domestically without another federal agency's supervision.

This barn just outside of Milford was no stranger to such intrigue. While it might seem innocuous, the place was actually an SAD safehouse and detention facility, sometimes used as a disposal yard depending on Langley's current fancy. And now Ethan was here, about to break into this 'black site', ready to fight his old coworkers to the death should the mission go awry. He donned a two-hole balaclava and a woodland jacket, completely hiding his identity from hawk-eyed cameras. His chest rig only had a few essentials: crowbar, keycard scrambler, plus a trauma plate to shield his chest. He also had a Glock on his hip holster and enough ammo in his rifle to turn the farm into a mortuary five times over. But it wouldn't have to come to violence – he just needed to retrieve that one woman from SAD custody, and he'd hightail it out of here.

He tried his best not to think about her. Emily Jacobsen. Sometimes he could still picture her warm face and sweet scent, despite knowing how things between them ended up the way they did. She was a fine woman and a brave patriot. But whatever good memories he ever had with her were forever marred by her betrayal, to him and to their country. So many good people died, so many innocent lives claimed, all because she wanted to make 'America stronger'. She was better off dead, knowing what the SAD would do to a White Mask infiltrator and ex-Case Officer like herself. Best case scenario: Ethan would find her somewhere in that barn, either in a drugged or delirious state, hopefully conscious enough that she could still be extracted for information. He had a shot of adrenaline handy to jumpstart her brain, get her to talk. What he'd do to her after that was moot, though a bullet between her eyes would probably be a mercy. Yet somehow, a part of him still wanted to relent. To be more… lenient.

He wiped off a bead of sweat from his brow while he kept his aim steady. For hours in his one-man stakeout, he had been shifting his crosshairs from one side of the barn to the other with nothing remarkable catching his attention. His latest sweep didn't yield him much: only a vast swathe of cornfields as far as the eyes could see, plus a few trees and a derelict combine harvester to mix the monotony. Thus, he returned his attention to the two men by the pickup, who hadn't been moving from their spot since they stepped out of the barn. They seemed to be waiting for one of their buddies inside, probably one of three individuals who had been going in and out of the premises. One of whom was a guy with glasses, probably in his late twenties, who looked like the Grounds Custodian, or 'caretaker'. There was also a stout-looking dude who had been carrying large boxes and parcels inside - an assistant, most likely. And then there's a nondescript woman in a jumpsuit, who had been barking orders about an hour ago, until she also went inside the barn and had not emerged since. If she was the Site Leader, this meant that the guys near the truck were the Troubleshooters: guards and hunters in equal measure, assigned to deal with unfortunate trespassers. It was safe to assume that they had sidearms tucked inside their clothes.

One of them motioned to the other to pick up the nearby garden hose. Their truck's tires needed cleaning apparently.

Ethan groaned in his head. So far, he had not seen anything suspicious or noteworthy to help him in his mission. He needed a lot more information to work with before he could make a move, like timetables and radio frequencies. He only had his prior experience in Milford to back him up. He remembered that the barn was a lot bigger on the inside, with a secret door behind a wooden panel to gain access to the underground safehouse itself. The old alarm system could still be there waiting for him, both on his way in and out. For that, he had his reconnaissance drones deployed at key places, ready to sniff them so he could deal with them. One of the wheeled robots was positioned almost two klicks from his spot, overlooking his SUV which he hid from the main road. The drone would also watch out for reinforcements that the damn spooks could call in, as well as cover his escape route if shit hit the fan. He positioned another drone behind a vent shaft to the northwest of the barn building, ready to zone out the place once Ethan had found an opportunity. If only he had known the foot traffic within the complex, he could get his bot in and out without being detected.

His biggest asset, however, was the tri-rotor drone that Meghan and Craig graciously provided him with. He sent it airborne half an hour ago, flying directly above the target building and keeping a steady eye on any movement below. Small-profile and silent, and thus the perfect scouting device. Where and how his SEAL colleagues got their paws on the bad boy was irrelevant. Perhaps they met with a certain motley crew who came back from South America sometime ago.

Ethan took out his datapad again to review the camera feeds of his three drones. So far, nothing; much like his sweep with the rifle. At this point, he figured it was probably best of him to wait until nightfall, sneak in when the agents' guard was down. He tucked the device back into his chest pocket, frowning in disappointment.

That was when he saw movement from the barn. He hurriedly braced the rifle stock again, scoping in for a better picture…

…

…_What are they doing?_

Three people emerged from the building: the glasses-guy, the fat dude, and the jumpsuit-lady, as he had previously tagged. They were in a hurry, headed towards the two lookouts who were waiting for them outside by the pickup truck. Some loud words were exchanged, slightly echoing from the distance. They were too far away for Ethan to listen in, but they seemed to be arguing amongst themselves. The guy with the glasses, in particular, was the most verbal, visibly showing his displeasure with aggressive scowls and hand gestures. The fat one was despondent, but the woman was fighting back with yells of her own. Whatever the reason for their debate, it was superfluous at best as they all got into the pickup truck anyway. The lady brought out her cellphone, presumably to report back to HQ.

_They're leaving?_

Ethan could not believe his eyes. All five tenants boarded their truck and started to drive off, leaving the farm complex completely unattended, against SAD protocols. And there couldn't have been anyone else left in the barn, as there were no other vehicles parked outside. Or maybe there was another vehicle hiding in the barn for shade, or there were other people he was yet to scope out. Or none at all. It was hard to juggle between possibilities without knowing all the variables. The urge to infiltrate the complex grew stronger, as the truck drove further and further away, probably headed to the city. The truck's windows weren't tinted, but he didn't see Emily among them.

He jotted down the truck's plates, just in case, as they drove further away and disappeared beyond the crest of a hill.

With the tenants seemingly out of the picture, Ethan pulled out his datapad again; an opportunity to reconnoiter had finally presented itself. This time, he switched controls to the drone he positioned northwest of the barn, just outside, and started maneuvering it. He could hear the wheels tumble through the dirt, scooping them up and throwing bits of it into the camera, as the robot rolled its way to the vent shaft. Dirt sounds were quickly replaced by metallic clinks, which Ethan prayed were soft enough to not attract attention from anyone who could still be inside. Reaching the end of the tiny tunnel, the drone stumbled across what appeared to be the barn's tackroom, spacious and wide, and lined with pressure-treated wood panels. There were boxes, crates, and other miscellanies stacked on top of each other, likely the ones being carried inside by the fat dude from earlier.

Strangely, nobody was guarding them.

Ethan shifted the camera angle to be sure, but there was no denying what his eyes were telling him. The barn was completely abandoned. There wasn't even a single sentry drone or security camera guarding the entrance to the secret passage, which looked exactly how he remembered it from his last time here. He felt a bit elated, realizing that his job had gotten a lot easier. Of course, it was to be short-lived.

Not long after his drone infiltrated the barn, he saw smoke coming from one of the stacks of boxes. Then, an sudden spark of light.

"What the fu-"

*BOOM!*

His datapad immediately went blank with static, just as how he felt the distant rumbling. The drone signal had gone dead, but before he could process what was going on, Ethan tilted his head up. There, half a klick away, he saw a section of the barn had caught fire.

"Holy shit!"

He couldn't believe it. At first, he thought he had triggered a booby trap. But no kind of defense mechanism would wantonly destroy the very place it's trying to protect. All kinds of scenarios ran in his head, but assuming his spy-playbook wasn't outdated, it would appear that spooks had just pulled a Clean Slate. Whatever triggered it caused everything related to their operation to be put to the torch. Was this why those agents were evacuating the barn? The reasoning didn't matter in the slightest, as Ethan felt his heart started to beat faster and more anxiously. For a few seconds, he did nothing but gawk at the inferno ahead of him. Whatever intel he came to retrieve was being turned to ash right before his eyes. And he was powerless to stop it.

_No. Nonono…_

His thoughts quickly went to Emily. He didn't see her come out of the barn. There was no way she could still be inside then, unless the SAD agents were damn deliberate about what they did. Then a cruel realization dawned: perhaps it wasn't just an evacuation that Ethan saw. Rather, it was also_… _an execution. An execution made to look like an accident. Was that why he saw them arguing earlier? It was too horrifying to be true; there's no way that the SAD were that cruel. They could've transferred Emily out of that place days ago. They could've killed her already, hours, days, maybe even months ago. Or she could still be shackled inside one of the underground cells, condemned to roast to death as a last-minute judgment. All Ethan knew was that he had little time for fear and second guesses.

Before he could even think about aborting his mission, he found himself standing up from his spot, leaving his EBR on the ground. His legs started a silent, yet hurried stride, as they took him to the edge of the cornfields where he was hiding from. Minutes felt like seconds as he realized the path he was about to take. The fire was yet to spread throughout the rest of the complex, probably giving him about five minutes at best to make a move. And that move made perfect sense in his head, even though logic begged him not to take another step. But he had to retrieve something, anything, or anyone, from that place before it burned into the ground. At worst, he was only satisfying his curiosity. At best, he was about to save a life. He didn't drive all this way to Iowa for nothing. Before he knew it, Ethan had gotten out of the field and into the open, all set for a mad dash towards the burning building. Somehow, the farmhouse beside it was still intact.

Even outside of the barn, intense heat gripped his skin through the fabric of his clothes. Thinking on his feet, Ethan remembered the garden hose he saw the guards were using earlier and sprayed himself with copious amounts of water. Hopefully, this would buy him more time. He figured it was far too late to reconnoiter the place with his flying drone; his best asset right now was his instincts. With a few deep breaths to psych himself up, he bolted his way inside. He went to the southern section of the barn and used all his might to kick down a wooden door. It didn't work, so he resorted to use his crowbar. He pried the knob off with steady force to unlock the door, grunting as he did. He was immediately greeted by a big puff of blackness. Inside, he stumbled across a massive bonfire of burning boxes, tongues of flame licking the ceiling. There was the unmistakable stench of ignited propane, hinting at the blast's origin. He found himself inching a few feet closer to flames in order to get his bearings. He spouted a whole lot of curses as he looked past the fires to find the secret access to the underground shelter. To his horror, he found smoke coming out of the wood panel as well, telling him that there might be a fire down there as well. Yet he still pressed on. Against all common sense, he went straight to the hidden door and kicked it down, managing to dodge cinders and burning debris from touching his water-soaked clothes. Smoke threatened to clog his nostrils, but his mask kept it bay, for at least a little while.

The clock was ticking, and he knew it would only take minutes for the whole place to collapse on top of him, or for the fire to suck out all the oxygen around him. His gloves touched sizzling surfaces as he broke into the hidden staircase leading underground. It wasn't as dim as Ethan thought it would be, but there were no emergency lights to guide his path either, hinting that the SAD goons had cut out all the power from their facility before they decided to torch it. At least that took care of the security systems as well. Ethan used the glow of the flames to locate the main hallway; he was relieved to know that the floorplan didn't change much since he had been here. The walls were the same dull grey concrete as last time, the floors and ceiling were still unpolished as before.

He nearly slipped on a pile of papers scattered beneath his feet. They spilled from a crate to his left, which had fallen off from an adjacent room, where a larger pile of boxes was stacked. The smoke and the stench bid him to take a closer look into the room, and true enough there was a small puddle on the floor with a gout of fire growing on top of it. It smelled like lighter fluid, a rather half-assed way to burn dozens of boxes en masse. Perhaps the SAD guys were in a hurry. While it was tempting to grab some of the boxes' contents before they were incinerated, Ethan conceded and focused on the task at hand. Emily. He searched desperately for a sign of her presence, even as the smoke clouded his vision and seeped into his nostrils. He strode out of the room, coughing all the way, completely unaware of what he'd see elsewhere in the complex.

Knowing time was not on his side, he did something out of desperation.

"Emily!", he shouted. "Emily!"

He was wasting precious oxygen in his lungs, just to get the attention of the one woman he came all this way for. He was also announcing his presence to the whole facility, which totally undid the whole infiltration-thing he intended. But anyone still inside here would have more pressing matters to worry about, now that there was a fire raging above their heads. Reckless and imprudent... Yet in the absence of good ideas, Ethan only had bad ones to choose from. Soon enough, he found himself on another hallway lined with several steel doors, frustrating him with the prospect of a guessing game. Rather than check each one of them, he focused on the last one which he remembered to be the old detention cell. He kicked it down with all the strength he could spare, but to no avail. Thus, he used his crowbar a second time. With the door pried open, he barged in without second thought. And his initial hunch was right; he stumbled across a small drab bedroom, which was also starting to fill with smoke.

There was a figure lying on the bed, covered in a green blanket.

"Emily!"

He rushed to the figure, unfurling the sheets with one swoop…

…

…

Ethan gasped. He didn't see a fair-skinned woman with red hair beneath the covers.

Instead, there was a scrawny little thing, motionless and lying on its back. A little girl. He recognized her: copper-skinned, black-haired, and clad in a medical gown. He met her only a few days ago, in marginally better circumstances. She looked asleep, but the bandage across her left wrist hinted at something more sinister. He could only mutter her name in disbelief.

"A…Agnes!?"

Once again, his paths crossed with Agnes Kipper, the poor child rescued by Team Rainbow from some hellhole in Morocco. Ethan was flabbergasted, for Meghan was doubly-sure she had the kid returned to home after her brief stay in Hereford. She obviously made the trip, but to see her here, in a burning farm practically in the middle of nowhere, sent a shockwave of alarm through his bones.

_What the hell is she doing here!?_

"Kid, wake up! We gotta go! …Agnes?"

Ethan shook her shoulder a third time, but she didn't respond. Hers was no ordinary sleep. The scar on her wrist confirmed his suspicion: she had been sedated with something strong, as not even the scorching heat or the dwindling oxygen could rouse her. He had to get her out as soon as possible. He scooped the little girl up in his arms and made a gangway out of the bedroom, smoke starting choke their lungs. He didn't look back at the inferno behind him as he climbed the stairs with haste, coughing heavily as he did. The moisture from his clothes had all but evaporated at this point; it wouldn't take much for the flames to consume him and his precious cargo. The moment he got out of the underground shelter, the fire behind him grew ever larger, consuming the hallway and all the kindling it found.

Ethan was back at the burning tackroom, which didn't improve his situation one bit. The fires here had gotten worse in fact; they were already sticking to the walls and the ceiling. Worse still, the place whence he came had been blocked off by a massive pile of burning debris, cutting off his best means of escape. Cursing under his breath, he hurried to another corner of the barn and kicked down the only door that was still intact, whereupon he came across another hall leading to the main farmhouse. This structure was relatively untouched, unlike the barn, but that was not really a consolation. On the contrary, the ceiling felt like it was heating up as well, and black smoke was starting to creep in from the crevices. The sickening smell of melted paint hinted that the outer skin was actually starting to catch fire. Rather than check in with his flying drone and confirm the case, Ethan was deadest on to finding the back door as soon as possible.

He didn't hear the beeping sound from his datapad. It was a warning. The tri-rotor drone flying outside had detected unknown movement.

Alas, he was so caught up with the escape to even notice. He let his limbs do all the work, his instincts do all the thinking. At the back of his head, speculation ran wild, realizing that his mission had taken a dark turn. Instead of Emily, he found Agnes Kipper: sole survivor of a massacre, the White Masks' latest victim, and perhaps the only living person to have seen their leader, as per her testimony in Hereford. The poor kid had gone through so much. She was supposed to be back with her kin, or at least with social workers or something, not locked in a cell ran by some goddamn stone-cold bastards. Somehow, the argument among those SAD agents started to feel a lot more… disturbing. They should've known there was a child in the safehouse they just burnt to the ground. Did they leave her there on purpose? Was she a prisoner? What had they done to her? The questions lingered on as Ethan passed a hallway and stumbled across a sun-lit kitchen. He saw that the way out was only a few meters ahead, and he quickly seized the chance to make his getaway.

He darted past a window, not realizing he was exposed on his right side. He reacted too late when the glass beside him suddenly shattered.

*splat!*

Something hard hit him in the chest, sharp and painful. A spray of red splattered across his face. He fell down on his side with a gasp, Agnes crumpling beside him in a violent thud.

…

* * *

…

Emma fell down with a grunt, a mist of white powder sprayed across her mask. Something heavy hit her in the chest, just below her right clavicle. Her FAMAS F2 fell beside her.

"_~One Attacker Remaining.~_", the loudspeakers announced, echoing throughout the Stadium.

The floor felt cold and littered with empty white casings. Her Sim-Suit beeped loudly, telling her she had "zero health". If she didn't regret volunteering for Harry's demonstration today, she was seriously reconsidering it now. She groaned as she clutched the part where the bullet hit, like it was second nature for her, one who survived a _real_ gunshot wound. She held the glove slightly above her face, seeing a sheet of pulverized chalk across her palm. There was, thankfully, no blood.

_Well, at least that worked..._

Sighing in defeat, she slumped her head down and played the part of a "Downed Operator", as per the simulation's rules. So much for testing out Julien's armor plate, as the bullet that downed her actually missed her vest by a good inch or so. The "simulated wound" actually hurt like crap, a lot more than she expected from a mere training munition. It was definitely a 9-mil, probably even one of the bullets she double-checked this morning. She spouted all sorts of nasty words, chastising herself for not seeing the murderhole that the Defenders made from that plaster wall ten meters ahead of her. She could already imagine the great splotch of blue and red on her chest once she took off the Sim-Suit, which wasn't her idea of a first day in her tour of Elis. But on the other hand, if she didn't take Ethan's recommendations into account, the bullet could've hit her with a much stronger force, producing an even uglier mark on her flesh. Small victories needed to be relished after all.

Looking to her right, Emma could see her last teammate, Jordan, a few meters away. He was engaged in a firefight with whoever was the lucky asshole who scored a hit on her. He unloaded with quick, precise taps from his assault rifle while he advanced with haste. The "Bomb Site" was close by, just separated by a wall, made from less than six inches of sawdust, sand, and lime. It was obviously a flimsy defense, which was why the Defenders did their best to shore it up with a layer of pneumatic, reinforced steel, indicated by the spikes protruding from its outer layer. Jordan ceased firing once he was in position, quickly pulling out a BC-3 Brimstone Exothermic Charge from his backpack, then planting it on the fortified surface. He then moved to a safe distance and produced a detonator from one of his pouches. One button press later and chemistry did the rest; Emma braced herself for it by closing her eyes.

*BOOM!*

Bits and pieces of debris flew across the room, quickly disintegrating into harmless puffs, showcasing the handiwork of Team Rainbow's R&D guys. Jordan reloaded his SIG556xi as soon as the smoke cleared, then tossed a flashbang into the brand-new hole he just made. Emma watched on as he ran straight into it, ready to finish the job. It was as though he was convinced that the opposition was subdued and he could just-

*thud*

And he got domed in the head. Of course.

"~_Attackers have been neutralized. Defenders win_.~"

The demonstration was finally over. "Dead Operators" stood up and bantered with their counterparts and allies, as Emma heard rounds of applause erupt from the spectator booths. Men and women in uptight suits expressed their approval, but as for what, she didn't rightly know. Nor did she really care in the slightest. All she knew was that she just made herself a simulated casualty for the amusement of several strangers. Iana's earlier complaint was starting to make a lot more sense.

Perhaps now would be a great time to engage in a solo tour of her own. Elis, as the brochures told, was a picturesque place worthy of a day's stroll or two. Or maybe even the Stadium should be given a chance, see the British-funded retrofits first-hand. Perhaps once everything had settled down for today, she could rope in Julien, Iana, Elena, or any of her pals, for a little sightseeing of their own. After all, she already had more than her fill of action and mayhem for now, even if all of it was spent inside of a make-believe house. She only needed to pick herself up from the floor. It took her a few attempts; she probably fell harder than she thought, or she was winded more than she expected.

As usual, the Nighthaven guards did nothing but gawk at her, standing still from the sidelines like they were drones. Nighthaven, Puissance Group, ARGUS, Sentinel Corp… it was as though all mercenaries literally had the same state of mind.

"Twitch! You okay?", Iana hurried to her.

Her new friend was still donning Rainbow's black fatigues, unlike the Attackers and Defenders in the demo. Emma's smile quickly turned into a frown, seeing that just behind Iana was the woman seemingly responsible for taking her out in the match. The skull facepaint hid her smug smile, while she held a smoking PBR92 on her right hand.

"Those look like they hurt.", Taina said sarcastically.

"You think? You shot above my chest plate!"

"Center mass, actually.", she smiled back, which didn't feel completely genuine. "But I guess my hand _did_ flick up a bit."

Emma didn't buy the explanation. Knowing this woman, she purposely shot at her soft spots as petty vengeance for what happened between them in that night out in Hereford. She did express a desire to stab her neck after all, but the latter figured it was just a morbid metaphor for something else. Luckily for Taina, Emma could let this one slide. Assuming her victory over her would be the end of their little feud, at any rate.

Just as then, Elena entered the room where the match's last seconds were held. She wasn't among the Defenders, but as top boffin for R&D she had been watching the action from the observation room beside the Labs. She acted like a doting mother, checking if everyone who wore her Sim-Suits could vouch for their performance. After a few choice words exchanged with Jordan, who was still rubbing his throbbing temple, she quickly made her way to Emma. She used two fingers to scoop up some of the white puffs on her chestplate, quite impressed by their quality.

"Completely disintegrated. Hmm, looks like the new training rounds are working better than the last batch after all."

"And they sting like hell. Son of a bitch…", Emma ranted to her.

"Oh, don't be such a baby.", Taina laughed. "You volunteered for this remember? I think you can walk this one off."

"Hah! I'd like to see you "walk this off" when your pretty little face gets hit-"

"Alright, alright. That's enough you two.", Elena went between them, realizing tempers were about to flare. "Have that checked out by Doc, Twitch. Debrief's in ten minutes."

She scoffed in reply, eager to finally get out of the blasted room. She picked up her rifle and strode off, looking for a place to vent. The other Operators greeted her in the hallway and staircase as she passed them by, but she only returned with a nod or a smirk. Outside of the Kill House, she saw that Harry and Meghan were still in the spectator booths, answering their guests' queries. It had been a small crowd today. But if this was to be the first day of the Program, then it would be one heck of a departure from what the Frenchwoman thought she knew about Rainbow. She hoped that their esteemed "Six" had something else up his sleeve, or at least another damn good reason why he wanted them to fight each other for his guests' amusement.

Having found a quiet corner in the Stadium all to herself, she sat down and unfurled the legs of her FAMAS F2's bipod so as to keep the barrel clean. Then she sighed and tilted her head up. The sun shone proudly in clear skies just as it did when she stepped off that bus today, picturesque enough for a snap in her smartphone. She felt her rapid pulse slowly ebb into a calmer rhythm; her visit to Gustave could wait. She then glanced at the white puffs on her chest again, this time laughing at how her "presentation" turned out. If today was any indication, this trip to Greece would probably be a rough one. She wanted to be a tourist again, see happier sights and breathe fresh air rather than gunpowder. But at least she felt at home. There's Julien in the distance riding his bike, Iana brainstorming with the other nerds in the arena. She still had friends, she was still alive. It was the least she could do for Madison Saint-Claire, may God rest that poor girl's soul.

Time for happier thoughts. Emma pulled out a pack of smokes from her back pocket, placing one between her lips. Her mind then went to another good friend as she flicked a lighter. She smiled, knowing he was out there, somewhere, doing his best, damn the consequences. That's what she always liked about him.

_I bet Ethan's having an easy time._

…

* * *

…

He fell down hard. The hard impact caused the back of his head to throb, shaking his marbles quite a bit. But worse than the pain in his skull was the wound to his torso, which Ethan still couldn't believe. Flat on his back, writhing and grunting, he clamped a hand over his vest. Then he brought it close to his face, alarmed by the unmistakable splotch of blood across his gloves. He had been shot.

It looked worse than it really was: the R1N Rhino on his plate carrier had absorbed much of the bullet's force, only ricocheting upwards into his flesh by sheer bad luck. He was in great pain but he was still breathing fine, which ruled out a lung shot right off the bat. Ethan's eyes frantically looked left and right looking for poor little Agnes. They found her flat on her back just a few inches from him. She wasn't breathing. There was blood on her medical gown, sending him into a panic. He crouched to her side and knelt for a closer look. Fortunately, the red smear on her clothes was actual his. Another sigh of relief escaped his lips, but he was not yet out of the woods. The kid was still out cold, or worse, and smoke was starting to fill the farmhouse as well.

And he had been shot while _inside_ a goddamn burning building. He just got ambushed.

"Sonuvabitch!", he clutched his wound again.

The bullet came through the window, the size and shape of the hole pointed to a rifle-caliber projectile that plugged him. The large pockmark on his armor plate only corroborated his suspicion. It probably came from a suppressed rifle too, since he didn't hear a distant snap in the air. He had been blindsided. Thinking that the shooter was still outside, Ethan figured that the best course of action was to get away from the windows as soon as possible. So he picked Agnes up from the floor and swung over to another corner, crouching as he went. The fire still raged behind him, completely consuming the barn and the hidden shelter.

He had a bigger problem to worry about. Safe behind cover, he pulled out his datapad again to try and make sense of the situation with his aerial drone, which was still aloft.

…

_Holy shit!_

There were eight men, just a few dozen meters south of the farmhouse, slowly approaching in a staggered formation. They were clad in black uniforms, ballistics masks, and other tactical gear. Sound-suppressed SG552s and AUGs were in their hands, plus a few LMGs… they brought some serious hardware with them. Probably an SAD wetworks team, who were alerted by the break-in. But the more Ethan thought about it, the less sense it made, as they were over-equipped for the job. They also arrived at the scene far too quickly to just be mere "reinforcements" that the agents called in before they drove off. Had they been waiting for him this whole time? Eager to gleam answers, Ethan fumbled with the audio on his camera feed. The drone's microphone was picking up some of their chatter.

"…Confirming UAV recall by ISR.", went one of them men, talking into his headset. "Primary target is down; stand-by for kill confirmation. Ajax out."

_ISR? Who the fuck are these guys?_

It felt too surreal; Ethan had anticipated a foot chase as his worst case scenario today, not a goddamn gunfight. If the armed men were definitely the SAD's goons then the kill-on-sight order made perfect fucking sense. He looked on anxiously as his drone feed showed him two of the masked shooters peeling off from the rest of their group, huddling on the east-side door where he was headed to. They exchanged hand signals in silence, as though they were prepping to breach; they were obviously well-drilled_._ Once again, Ethan was pressed with a set of bad choices. He could either hide to evade these assholes, or he could find another exit while he still had time. True to form, he let his instincts decide for him instead. He moved swiftly out of the kitchen, laying low, and made his way to the dining room. He needed to be fast, lest the blazing inferno started consuming the house. For now, the pain wasn't his concern. His heart kept beating out of his chest, but he had a clear plan of action in his head. He cradled Agnes close as they hid behind a table counter.

Then he pulled out his sidearm with his other hand, and racked the slide against his hip.

*click*

"Man, this is not good."

…

* * *

**Author's Notes/Comments: **I had to completely rewrite this chapter from the ground up because I wasn't satisfied with the first version of it, particularly the segment on The Program, hence the delayed release. Took me almost a month, but I am quite satisfied on how this one turned out; the discarded ideas are gonna be featured in future chapters instead. Also, Twitch makes a return as a POV character for the Rainbow-side of the story, though probably she won't be as prominent as she was in Freedom Day. This is because I intend to focus more on Rainbow's ongoing hunt for the bad guys, rather than The Program itself (my headcanon is that Team Rainbow still run missions while they're in Greece, with Nighthaven bolstering their manpower).

Anyway, I hope you liked this one! Before anyone asks, yes, I intend to feature Sam Fisher at some point. :)


End file.
